The time is drawing nearer to the release of Damselle in Distress. I'm working on last minute details now! For now, here's Chapter 3, in which Damselle meets a formidable figure on her way to the woods and something worse within them.
You can check out Chapter 1 here, and Chapter 2 here.
You can check out Chapter 1 here, and Chapter 2 here.
Damselle in Distress
Chapter 3: The Rider
Kiley Kellermeyer
Damselle and Ixby hurried from the center of Woodswyck. A pink glow was barely visible on the horizon, though they still traveled by laternlight. She was going to find the faery Alyas. She was going to get a new name. Then she was going to come home and live without fear some creature might descend upon her at any moment.
Damselle resituated her bag over her shoulder and headed down a narrow alley strewn with bits of trash. Her mother had said to go into The Willowwax, the enchanted forest outside town, and to do so via the lesser traveled paths. She followed this advice, but the further she walked, the more unease she felt. The tall buildings were crumbling and there were jagged cracks and holes in the dusty road. The whole place smelled like garbage left to rot. She could feel eyes watching from every window. Perhaps it was her imagination, but there seemed to be more shadows here, as if the place lent its occupants more places to skulk.
Ixby seemed to think so, too. He swallowed and said, “Perhaps we should find another way. I don’t like the looks of this place.”
“It’ll be all right,” Damselle said. She wrapped her gray cloak around her. “This is the Red Rider’s Hood. It’s a bit, well, dodgy. We should just hurry and keep our heads down... ” She walked faster.
“The Red Rider’s what?”
“The Red Rider’s Hood. Father said the place is filled with criminals, and most of the criminals belong to the Red Riders.”
“R-Red Riders? What do they ride?”
“Nothing,” she said. “It is just a name they’ve been given. No one knows why.”
A heavy silence followed and they pressed on. Ixby took to flying around her shoulders and muttering his qualms about the area every so often. Finally, as Damselle turned a corner, she saw the town wall and sighed. “We’ve made it, Ixby. I can see the trees from here. Ixby?”
“What’s it? An Icksy?”
Damselle whirled around to see a short figure covered in a red cloak step out of the shadows, clutching a shuddering Ixby.
“Let—let him go!” Damselle said. She tried to swallow, but her mouth felt dry.
“Or what? Mummsie and daddsie will sic the knights on me?” The woman spoke in a fast, clipped accent, her voice slightly raspy. “Magical creatures fetch a good price on the Black Magic Market. I think I’ll keep the Icksy.”
The woman turned. Damselle was overcome with a dreadful feeling of helplessness. She had no sword, no shield, no flying steed. What under the Stars was she supposed to do? One Red Rider was bad enough, and what if there were more? For one small moment she wondered if Sir Leal was anywhere near. The very thought made her disgusted with herself. Ixby had left the well because of her and helped her escape twice. She couldn’t abandon him. Damselle inhaled, then rushed the red-cloaked woman. The two grappled for an absurd moment, a tiny woman all in red wriggling away from a thin girl in a green dress.
The woman went down with an ack! but didn’t let go of Ixby. Instead, she squeezed him around the middle, and he squeaked. The Red Rider struggled to get away from Damselle, but Damselle grabbed the hem of the cloak.
“Get your ruddy hands offa me!” the woman growled. “I don’t wanna hurt you, girl, but I will!”
“Let go of Ixby,” Damselle grunted, tugging on the cape.
“Fat chance! Get yourself another creature.” The woman grabbed hold of a nearby doorframe and heaved herself away from Damselle, who tugged on the cloak. The cloak ripped across the shoulder and slid off the woman as she tumbled to the ground. Damselle hopped up and backed away with the red cloak in her hands. As she watched, it slowly knitted itself back together until it was perfectly whole. Damselle gaped at the cloak in her hands, then stared up at the woman standing in front of her.
The Red Rider before her wore snug, deep red trousers tucked into red boots, with a black shirt and blood red belt. Her body was small and slightly stooped. In the fading moonlight and flickering lanterns, Damselle had the distinct impression the woman was both younger than she appeared and old before her time. Her face was thin and pallid. Several scars puckered her skin at the temples and chin, and thin, stringy hair grew atop her head. Her eyes were pale blue.
“Awful, eh, girl?” the Rider said. “Most horrible thing you ever did see, the monster under the bloody red ridin’ cloak. Well, now you’ve seen. You’ve had a laugh.”
“What?” Damselle said. “No, I—”
“You’ve had your fun,” snapped the woman. “Go tell all your friends.”
“No, I don’t…” The words died on her lips. Damselle had seen far worse horrors in her life, but none had ever evoked such a sudden feeling of pity. This was no witch or spider or dragon; it was a woman. What had happened to her?
“Give me that cloak,” the woman said. “It’s mine, and don’t you try nothin’.” Her pale eyes were fixed on the velvety cape in Damselle’s hands, obviously weighing how she might escape with both cloak and Ixby.
Damselle felt the cloak. It was soft and warm and had a strange scent; not of sweat like she’d expected. It smelled old. “Give me Ixby,” she said, watching the woman cautiously, “and I’ll give you the cloak.”
The Rider frowned and squeezed the Ixby tighter. “Hand it over, girl, and don’t meddle in things you don’t understand. I don’t want to hurt you.”
Damselle tucked the cloak under her arms and glanced around the abandoned stone buildings. “What sort of cloak is this?”
“That’s none of your affair.”
“It is.” Damselle tried to stand taller. “If you won’t let go of Ixby, I’ll take the cloak for myself.”
The Rider grimaced. “You won’t want to do that, girl. Bah! What do you need an Icksy for, anyway?”
“I can promise I have no other friends to tell of this. Ixby is the only friend I have, Stars help me, though I doubt he’ll want to travel with me after this.”
“Not so, Miss Damselle,” Ixby squeaked from the Rider’s fist. His voice was easily audible in the deserted alley.
Damselle hugged the cloak to her chest. “With only an Ixby for company, I imagine an invincible cloak would come in handy on my journey.”
The Rider took a step toward Damselle. “Doubt it.” She crossed her arms across her black shirt, muffling Ixby’s objections. “Damselle, eh? Heard that name before. Bad luck, they say.” She studied Damselle for a moment, her posture shifting from anger into alert curiosity. “Stories of a girl what brings trouble wherever she goes. They say all sorts of bad stuff falls down ‘round your ears.” She didn’t look frightened; rather, she cocked her head, furrowed her wispy brow. “They say you’re cursed.”
“They say Red Riders catch children to cook upon their fires. That’s probably a lie,” Damselle said, frowning. “The story about me is true, however. You’d best hand over Ixby so we can be on our way and nothing bad falls down around your ears.’ If not, this cloak should come in very handy against all that bad luck you’ve heard of.”
The Red Rider pressed her pale lips into a thin line.
“Fine,” Damselle said. She flung the cloak out in front of her and made to toss it around her shoulders. At that moment, the Rider chucked Ixby into the air, threw herself at Damselle as she cried, “No!”
Damselle braced for the collision. Rather than hitting Damselle, the Rider smacked the cloak from her grasp. It fell to the ground, where it landed in a slimy puddle. Damselle froze by the side of the building, the dim light from above shining on the Rider.
“You want me looks for your own? Never don this cape,” she said. The ghostly pale skin and piercing eyes were unsettling. She reached down, picked up the cloak and flung it over her own shoulders. All the wet and filth upon the garment vanished in an instant.
Ixby settled, quivering, onto Damselle’s shoulder as she gaped at the woman and cloak alike. “What sort of cloak is that?” he asked.
“All evil in velveteen, that’s what it is.”
“Did it…is that how you…?” Damselle hesitated.
“Yes.” The Rider crossed her arms and sneered.
Damselle leaned back against the wall of the building. Against all her better judgment she asked, “How?”
There was a moment of silence as the Red Rider studied her again. She looked as if she were deciding whether to leave or stay and answer. Finally, she spoke. “You join the Red Riders to find camaraderie. Well, that and wealth beyond reckonin’. That’s why everyone joins. In return for your oath, they gave you this bloody red ridin’ cape.” She adjusted the thing upon her shoulders. “Got to wear them always. They won’t rip or tear. They don’t get dirty or wet.” She shivered. “You find comrades and treasure, all right. What they don’t tell you is what the cloak does to you. Oh, it’s dead useful, if that’s what you’re wonderin’. But it takes somethin’ from you. Makes you look like this.” She gestured to her herself.
Again, as she stood in the most dangerous part of town with a hooded criminal, Damselle felt overcome with pity. This woman was likely wanted for Stars-knew how many crimes, but for just a moment, Damselle wondered if she hadn’t already paid a heavy price. Something about her, or possibly her plight, felt familiar.
“Can you not take off the cloak and leave the Red Rider’s Hood behind?” Damselle asked.
“Don’t you have any brains? Make it that easy to leave and no one would ever stay. We can’t take the cloaks off, silly girl. Go long without wearin’ the cloak and your life is slowly drained from your body. Remove the cloak and you got ‘bout half a day, maybe, till you die. Got to wear it, got to serve the Riders. Can’t never stop wearin’ it.”
“Spirits preserve me,” Ixby whimpered from Damselle’s shoulder.
Damselle stared at the woman in dismay. “It’s cursed,” Damselle whispered. “Sort of like… like…”
“You?” The Rider raised an eyebrow.
Damselle shifted on the worn cobblestones. “Like my name.”
The woman gave a curt nod and pursed her lips, as if she had expected nothing different. The sky above was beginning to fade into pre-dawn pinkness. The Red Rider was watching her again with an inquisitive gleam in her eye.
“And there’s no way to fix it?” Damselle asked. “There has to be. Somewhere.”
“None I ever heard of. Maybe some faery magic somewhere, but I don’t meet a whole lot of faeries ‘round here to ask ‘em.”
Faery magic. The thought came to Damselle suddenly, then, and escaped her mouth before she had time to think. “I know a faery,” she said. “My faery godmother.”
The Rider snorted. “So?”
“Well.” Damselle wavered, tracing a crack in the ground with the toe of her shoe. Then she spoke quickly in one long breath: “I am on my way to find my faery godmother, and I cannot promise she’ll be welcoming, but she seems to be very powerful, and I’m going to find a way to trade with her to change my cursed name so perhaps she could do something for you, as well.”
Ixby muttered something, but the Rider only gave a disdainful cackle. “You’re a foolish girl. You don’t know a thing about me. I could have trussed you up and cooked you on a fire six times since I’ve been natterin’ on.”
Damselle swallowed, but she did not back away like she wanted to. “But you didn’t.”
“Anyway, I’m not in the habit of followin’ little girls on queer quests, chasin’ after faeries and the like.”
“All right,” Damselle threw her hands up and turned to hurry from the neighborhood. “It was just a thought, and I’m sorry I had it.”
The Rider spat on the ground. “Don’t need charity, either.”
Ixby sighed in relief.
“Fine. Have it your way.” Damselle shook her head. It was a foolish idea anyway, pity for a Red Rider. “Let’s go, Ixby.”
Ixby hopped into the air and followed her toward the woods in the distance. This was a bad way to start her quest. She’d already been accosted by a criminal and Ixby nearly taken, and she hadn’t even left town yet. They made their way through the narrow alleys of the Red Rider’s Hood and toward the town’s eastern exit. The gate was little more than a ruddy, disused archway that led out of Woodswyck. It was silhouetted against the brightening sky and Damselle sped up as she saw its outline. She just had to get out of town and across the field into the woods. Then her quest would really begin.
“Oi,” said a familiarly raspy voice, and someone jumped out in front of her.
Damselle yelped and stumbled away. “Stars above,” she breathed. “How did you get in front of us?”
The Red Rider from earlier waved her hand indifferently and lowered her hood. “Your faery godmother can get rid of me cloak?”
“I don’t know that,” Damselle said.
“What if she can’t do it? What then?”
Damselle raised an eyebrow. “Then I suppose you’ll have wasted your obviously very valuable time.”
“Hmm.” The Red Rider scrunched her wispy brow, looked over her shoulder, and then back at Damselle. “All right. I’ll come.”
Ixby moaned “Oh no!” and clutched at his tunic.
“I reckon you’ve got as good a reason as anybody to go chasin’ after a faery,” said the Rider. “If you can do it, I can too.”
“As you know, being in my company is dangerous even at the best of times,” Damselle warned.
“I ain’t scared of monsters, girl. I am a monster.”
“All right, then,” Damselle said, nodding at the woman. “Do you have a name?”
“’Course I have a name. What sort of fog-brained question is that? ’Fore I joined the Red Riders, I was called Blanchette. Silly ol’ name if ever I heard one,” she said. Then she shrugged her bony shoulders and added, “Everyone calls me Biddy now.”
At that, Damselle marched a very strange company out of Woodswyck and toward the enormous swaying trees of the enchanted Willowwax. The forest was huge and frightening and full of terrible things. It was the one place Damselle truly had no business. It was also the one place she had to go.
*
Great willow trees swayed in the slight breeze. Their droopy branches reached for Damselle, beckoned her into The Willowwax, and she halted abruptly at the edge of the woods. Ixby, who had been flying behind her, crashed into the back of her head. There was a musky dampness to the air, filled with the smell of wet bark, morning dew, and green leaves.
“Okay, I can do this.” Damselle rocked back and forth, staring at the inconceivably high tree tops.
“Are you well?” asked Ixby, extricating himself from the mass of deep red curls.
“Of course.” That was a lie. Dreadful things were said to live in these woods. Horrors with great fangs and snatching claws were rumored to lurk within the forest, dangerous to the luckiest of wanderers. Now she, Damselle, magnet for misfortune, led two travelers straight into the thick of it.
“What’d she stop for?” growled Biddy. She stomped up to the forest line and stopped next to Damselle. “I ain’t left the Rider’s Hood to stand outside these ruddy trees. Never been a fan of shrubbery.”
“Miss Damselle is worried about entering The Willowwax,” squeaked Ixby before Damselle had time to answer.
“Most the stuff said ‘bout them woods is a load of poppycock,” said Biddy, turning her hooded face to Damselle.
“It is not!” said Ixby. “There are beautiful and terribly evil creatures in the woods.”
Biddy marched closer to Ixby and jabbed a gnarled finger at him. “How’s the Icksy know what’s in the woods?”
“Because I am a creature of magic!” With a little cough he added, “And I’ve listened to the Wood-Ixbies’ stories.”
A long, piercing howl from deep in the forest split the air and cut off Biddy’s retort. Ixby jumped and buried himself in Damselle’s hair, shivering so hard he made her head shake.
“I’ve read a book about The Willowwax,” Damselle said. She crossed her arms across her cloak. “The writer supposedly died of his wounds soon after emerging.”
“A bleedin’ ghost wrote the book, did he?”
“He compiled the notes while he was in the woods.” Damselle narrowed her eyes, feeling increasingly sorry she’d asked the woman along.
“Pah! Books!” said Biddy. “I trust ’em as far as I can throw ’em.”
“Which I’m assuming would be rather far.”
Biddy sniffed.
“It’s filled with such creatures and trials as you cannot even imagine.” Damselle raised an eyebrow. “Does your cloak protect you from those? Never mind, we will have to enter sooner or later. I know of no other way to find any of the gifts we need to give to Alyas.”
“Sooner rather than later, then. I’d not fancy seein’ one of me brothers or sisters from the Hood ‘fore we leave,” said Biddy, pointing back toward the border of Woodswyck.
“Your siblings joined as well?” asked Ixby.
“’Course not,” snorted Biddy. “We’re all considered family in the Hood, and I’m committin’ an act of betrayal here. No, if they turned up now, they would remove me skin along with me cloak. Tempers, they have. Probably make the girl join, too, or die. Then they’d take the Icksy for sellin’ or tradin’. I suppose they’d—”
“Enough!” Damselle said. “I won’t be followed by knights and I won’t be chased by angry Red Riders.” She cast a wary eye back the way they’d come. “I’ll take my chances in the woods. Come on!”
Damselle left her town behind with single step. The others followed her into the dark shadows of The Willowwax. After several moments of aimless walking and gaping, Ixby tugged on her hair. “Where should we go from here?"
Damselle pulled up short. It was a valid question, and she began to realize she was perhaps not as prepared as she should have been. Her nighttime flight from home had not allowed her a chance to procure a map of the woods, if such a thing existed. She wiggled her shoes around in the dark earth. The ground was soft from the morning dew. Reluctantly, she turned to Biddy. “Have you come here before?”
The Rider shrugged. “A bit, sure. All Riders do.”
“But you know the woods?”
“Not all that well.” She shrugged again. “We only just come past the border. To meet the smugglers, and we got to keep away from the bloody woodsmen that lurk about. Killjoys, the lot of ’em.”
Damselle sighed and began walking again. “I think we should look for the faery’s tale first.”
“Faery tale? Like a story?” Biddy cocked her head, allowing some of the pale light to illuminate her harsh features.
“Yes, like a story. I think we should look for it first, and perhaps the faeries can give us some guidance as to the rest.”
“Pah! Faeries!” said Biddy. “I never liked ’em.”
“Is there anyone you do like?”
“You, if you get me to this mysterious faery godmother of yours.”
“Perfect,” Damselle rolled her eyes. “I’ll try really hard then.” She tried walking faster to keep ahead of the woman in red, but the Rider was spry and quick despite her haggard form. It had been a mistake asking her along.
Ixby buzzed up beside her. “Faeries are hard to find if they don’t want to be found.”
Damselle looked at him, then smacked her forehead. “Of course you know where they are, Ixby. You’re a magical creature; you’ll be able to find them, surely.”
“Not exactly.” He shook his head. “There might be signs of their dwellings, but those are also hard to find. I may know one if I see one, Miss, but I cannot make any promises.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
Ixby stared around the bright green woods with wide eyes. “We could follow that path,” he said, pointing.
“Oh, this should be great,” Biddy grumbled.
Damselle and Biddy walked for the better part of a day, deeper and deeper into the woods. There were no signs of faeries, according to Ixby, who flew around their shoulders squeaking things like, “What if we run into a terrible creature?” and “This path seems unsafe!” and “Maybe we are going the wrong way!”
“If you don’t stopper it, Icksy, I’ll stuff you in me pocket for safe keepin’,” Biddy told him. After that, he kept his nervous muttering to a low hum.
Eventually, the path led them to a very strange tree that grew like a leafy sentry near a large cave. The tree was unlike any Damselle had seen before. The trunk was thick, the width of several normal trees. Its mahogany roots, bowed under enormous pressure, propped the entire tree off the ground so there were several feet between the soft earth and the tree itself. The top of the tree sprouted short, stubby branches with tufts of green leaves that seemed out of proportion with the tall, thick trunk.
“That’s a Tumtum tree, that is,” said Biddy
“You’re right!” Damselle gasped. “They’re rare and have all sorts of magical properties. They are said to make great shelters, and I can see why.” She gazed up at the purpling sky. “We should stay here for the night.”
“Sleep under a tree? Don’t tell me walkin’ a few miles in the woods made you ‘one with nature’ and all that rubbish? There’s a cave a few steps away, girl,” Biddy said. “It’s not so out in the open as that tree.”
“Trees make excellent shelters,” said Ixby.
Damselle regarded the cave. It was a dark hole in the side of a hill. It brought back an unpleasant memory of when she had become lost on her eighth birthday.
“I don’t think we should stay in the cave,” she said.
“Ooh, look who’s a right little woodsie-woman now. I’m sleepin’ in the cave, and don’t you two come crawlin’ in when you’re scared of the night noises.”
Damselle glowered at her. “We shouldn’t split up, Rider.”
“Comin’ along, then?”
Damselle wanted to strangle the woman with her red cloak. “No, I am not. Ixby and I are staying out here, and you should too. For…safety in numbers.” Damselle had never had luck with such a notion, but she tried to sound convincing. She strode to the Tumtum tree, ducked, and walked underneath. She could not stand straight, but only had to hunch her shoulders. Surprisingly, Biddy followed her under the tree’s roots.
“You are staying with us?”
“Safety in numbers,” was all Biddy said.
Damselle, Biddy, and Ixby settled silently down into the soft soil beneath the tree. As it grew dark, Biddy struck a fire and muttered to herself about sleeping in the open. Damselle handed the woman an orange from her pack. She removed an apple for herself and shared a slice with Ixby, who dribbled juice down his white tunic.
As she chewed, Damselle couldn’t help but feel as if something was amiss. It was a bit like an itch between her shoulder blades she could not reach. She looked at her companions, but they seemed untroubled. She pushed the uneasiness from her mind.
An hour later, Ixby had settled his nerves and fallen asleep, curled up and snoring by the fire. Damselle attempted to fill the silence by asking Biddy more about her life before the Red Riders. She was rewarded with cold glares, so she offered her own story to ease the tension.
“I learned that to counter this curse I must travel to my faery godmother, Alyas, and bargain with her to rename myself,” she concluded.
“Hm,” Biddy said, apparently more eager to talk about someone else than herself. “Too bad. ‘Damselle’s’ not a bad name. Better than ‘Blanchette.’ Awful.”
Damselle smiled weakly. It would be strange to be called by a different name, but what choice did she have? “I have no other way to fight things like harpies and trolls and all the other sorts of things that find me. Actually, I have no way to fight at all. I don’t even have a weapon.”
“Well that’s stupid,” Biddy said. She eyed Damselle skeptically for a moment, then bent down and reached into her crimson boot. From it, she produced a small silver dagger with a red hilt. “I don’t know what we’ll face out here, girl, but I won’t come rushin’ to save you ‘cause you can’t help yourself. And I’ll not have you gettin’ me killed, got it?” She handed the dagger to Damselle.
“Won’t you need it?” asked Damselle, taking the blade.
“You think I walk around with naught but one weapon up me sleeve?” snorted Biddy. “I’d have been dead years ago.” The orange firelight reflected in her pale blue eyes.
The small tree shelter was quiet for several minutes as Damselle cut a strip of cloth off the hem of her dress and wrapped it tight around her waist, then slipped the dagger inside the new belt. Then she wrapped the blade. It wasn’t a large weapon, but she felt it likely had a history of defending its previous owner, and that made her feel more secure than the old kitchen knife had.
Damselle realized suddenly what that earlier itch had been. Nothing had attacked them. She was in a forest full of evil, untamed, magical creatures and had not been touched so far. It had been too easy.
A wild and desperate fear spread through her body in ripples. She looked at Biddy and Ixby. Then she heard it: breathing. Heavy breathing from close by. She moved to stand and hit her head on the tree trunk above her.
“What is it?” Biddy squawked, and Damselle clamped a hand over the woman’s cloak-obscured mouth.
“There’s something out there,” Damselle whispered.
Biddy listened and then nodded. “Ah, Dunes of Darkness. I must be gettin’old.”
Damselle felt as if her heart had crept into her throat. Her head throbbed from banging it on the tree. Not now, she thought. Please, no distress now.
“Better wake the Icksy,” said Biddy as she looked around.
“Tell him to be calm.”
“Like that’ll happen,” muttered Biddy. Still, she crawled over to the snoring Ixby and poked him.
Damselle couldn’t begin to guess what was out there, but one thing was for certain: it had come for her, and if she did nothing, her quest would end before it began. She crouched down and crept toward the bowed roots. The breathing grew louder. The creature did not seem able to or willing to come under the tree. Maybe it was waiting for her to come out.
It must be very large. Or very clever. Or both.
Damselle plucked a broken branch from the ground and used the fire to light it.
“Oh, Miss Damselle,” squealed Ixby, who flapped wildly around the shelter. “What are you doing? You’ll catch the tree on fire! You’ll bring the creature into the shelter! You’ll—”
The Rider grabbed hold of Ixby and stuffed him in some mysterious pocket where his tiny voice was muffled. Damselle held the burning branch in front of her, walked back to the Tumtum tree’s roots, and took a deep breath. In one swift motion, she threw the torch outward. It made a tall fiery arc in the air and, in the seconds before it was snuffed out, illuminated long, gleaming white teeth. She yelped and fell backward into Biddy, who whispered in a raspy voice, “Jabberwock.”
Chapter 3: The Rider
Kiley Kellermeyer
Damselle and Ixby hurried from the center of Woodswyck. A pink glow was barely visible on the horizon, though they still traveled by laternlight. She was going to find the faery Alyas. She was going to get a new name. Then she was going to come home and live without fear some creature might descend upon her at any moment.
Damselle resituated her bag over her shoulder and headed down a narrow alley strewn with bits of trash. Her mother had said to go into The Willowwax, the enchanted forest outside town, and to do so via the lesser traveled paths. She followed this advice, but the further she walked, the more unease she felt. The tall buildings were crumbling and there were jagged cracks and holes in the dusty road. The whole place smelled like garbage left to rot. She could feel eyes watching from every window. Perhaps it was her imagination, but there seemed to be more shadows here, as if the place lent its occupants more places to skulk.
Ixby seemed to think so, too. He swallowed and said, “Perhaps we should find another way. I don’t like the looks of this place.”
“It’ll be all right,” Damselle said. She wrapped her gray cloak around her. “This is the Red Rider’s Hood. It’s a bit, well, dodgy. We should just hurry and keep our heads down... ” She walked faster.
“The Red Rider’s what?”
“The Red Rider’s Hood. Father said the place is filled with criminals, and most of the criminals belong to the Red Riders.”
“R-Red Riders? What do they ride?”
“Nothing,” she said. “It is just a name they’ve been given. No one knows why.”
A heavy silence followed and they pressed on. Ixby took to flying around her shoulders and muttering his qualms about the area every so often. Finally, as Damselle turned a corner, she saw the town wall and sighed. “We’ve made it, Ixby. I can see the trees from here. Ixby?”
“What’s it? An Icksy?”
Damselle whirled around to see a short figure covered in a red cloak step out of the shadows, clutching a shuddering Ixby.
“Let—let him go!” Damselle said. She tried to swallow, but her mouth felt dry.
“Or what? Mummsie and daddsie will sic the knights on me?” The woman spoke in a fast, clipped accent, her voice slightly raspy. “Magical creatures fetch a good price on the Black Magic Market. I think I’ll keep the Icksy.”
The woman turned. Damselle was overcome with a dreadful feeling of helplessness. She had no sword, no shield, no flying steed. What under the Stars was she supposed to do? One Red Rider was bad enough, and what if there were more? For one small moment she wondered if Sir Leal was anywhere near. The very thought made her disgusted with herself. Ixby had left the well because of her and helped her escape twice. She couldn’t abandon him. Damselle inhaled, then rushed the red-cloaked woman. The two grappled for an absurd moment, a tiny woman all in red wriggling away from a thin girl in a green dress.
The woman went down with an ack! but didn’t let go of Ixby. Instead, she squeezed him around the middle, and he squeaked. The Red Rider struggled to get away from Damselle, but Damselle grabbed the hem of the cloak.
“Get your ruddy hands offa me!” the woman growled. “I don’t wanna hurt you, girl, but I will!”
“Let go of Ixby,” Damselle grunted, tugging on the cape.
“Fat chance! Get yourself another creature.” The woman grabbed hold of a nearby doorframe and heaved herself away from Damselle, who tugged on the cloak. The cloak ripped across the shoulder and slid off the woman as she tumbled to the ground. Damselle hopped up and backed away with the red cloak in her hands. As she watched, it slowly knitted itself back together until it was perfectly whole. Damselle gaped at the cloak in her hands, then stared up at the woman standing in front of her.
The Red Rider before her wore snug, deep red trousers tucked into red boots, with a black shirt and blood red belt. Her body was small and slightly stooped. In the fading moonlight and flickering lanterns, Damselle had the distinct impression the woman was both younger than she appeared and old before her time. Her face was thin and pallid. Several scars puckered her skin at the temples and chin, and thin, stringy hair grew atop her head. Her eyes were pale blue.
“Awful, eh, girl?” the Rider said. “Most horrible thing you ever did see, the monster under the bloody red ridin’ cloak. Well, now you’ve seen. You’ve had a laugh.”
“What?” Damselle said. “No, I—”
“You’ve had your fun,” snapped the woman. “Go tell all your friends.”
“No, I don’t…” The words died on her lips. Damselle had seen far worse horrors in her life, but none had ever evoked such a sudden feeling of pity. This was no witch or spider or dragon; it was a woman. What had happened to her?
“Give me that cloak,” the woman said. “It’s mine, and don’t you try nothin’.” Her pale eyes were fixed on the velvety cape in Damselle’s hands, obviously weighing how she might escape with both cloak and Ixby.
Damselle felt the cloak. It was soft and warm and had a strange scent; not of sweat like she’d expected. It smelled old. “Give me Ixby,” she said, watching the woman cautiously, “and I’ll give you the cloak.”
The Rider frowned and squeezed the Ixby tighter. “Hand it over, girl, and don’t meddle in things you don’t understand. I don’t want to hurt you.”
Damselle tucked the cloak under her arms and glanced around the abandoned stone buildings. “What sort of cloak is this?”
“That’s none of your affair.”
“It is.” Damselle tried to stand taller. “If you won’t let go of Ixby, I’ll take the cloak for myself.”
The Rider grimaced. “You won’t want to do that, girl. Bah! What do you need an Icksy for, anyway?”
“I can promise I have no other friends to tell of this. Ixby is the only friend I have, Stars help me, though I doubt he’ll want to travel with me after this.”
“Not so, Miss Damselle,” Ixby squeaked from the Rider’s fist. His voice was easily audible in the deserted alley.
Damselle hugged the cloak to her chest. “With only an Ixby for company, I imagine an invincible cloak would come in handy on my journey.”
The Rider took a step toward Damselle. “Doubt it.” She crossed her arms across her black shirt, muffling Ixby’s objections. “Damselle, eh? Heard that name before. Bad luck, they say.” She studied Damselle for a moment, her posture shifting from anger into alert curiosity. “Stories of a girl what brings trouble wherever she goes. They say all sorts of bad stuff falls down ‘round your ears.” She didn’t look frightened; rather, she cocked her head, furrowed her wispy brow. “They say you’re cursed.”
“They say Red Riders catch children to cook upon their fires. That’s probably a lie,” Damselle said, frowning. “The story about me is true, however. You’d best hand over Ixby so we can be on our way and nothing bad falls down around your ears.’ If not, this cloak should come in very handy against all that bad luck you’ve heard of.”
The Red Rider pressed her pale lips into a thin line.
“Fine,” Damselle said. She flung the cloak out in front of her and made to toss it around her shoulders. At that moment, the Rider chucked Ixby into the air, threw herself at Damselle as she cried, “No!”
Damselle braced for the collision. Rather than hitting Damselle, the Rider smacked the cloak from her grasp. It fell to the ground, where it landed in a slimy puddle. Damselle froze by the side of the building, the dim light from above shining on the Rider.
“You want me looks for your own? Never don this cape,” she said. The ghostly pale skin and piercing eyes were unsettling. She reached down, picked up the cloak and flung it over her own shoulders. All the wet and filth upon the garment vanished in an instant.
Ixby settled, quivering, onto Damselle’s shoulder as she gaped at the woman and cloak alike. “What sort of cloak is that?” he asked.
“All evil in velveteen, that’s what it is.”
“Did it…is that how you…?” Damselle hesitated.
“Yes.” The Rider crossed her arms and sneered.
Damselle leaned back against the wall of the building. Against all her better judgment she asked, “How?”
There was a moment of silence as the Red Rider studied her again. She looked as if she were deciding whether to leave or stay and answer. Finally, she spoke. “You join the Red Riders to find camaraderie. Well, that and wealth beyond reckonin’. That’s why everyone joins. In return for your oath, they gave you this bloody red ridin’ cape.” She adjusted the thing upon her shoulders. “Got to wear them always. They won’t rip or tear. They don’t get dirty or wet.” She shivered. “You find comrades and treasure, all right. What they don’t tell you is what the cloak does to you. Oh, it’s dead useful, if that’s what you’re wonderin’. But it takes somethin’ from you. Makes you look like this.” She gestured to her herself.
Again, as she stood in the most dangerous part of town with a hooded criminal, Damselle felt overcome with pity. This woman was likely wanted for Stars-knew how many crimes, but for just a moment, Damselle wondered if she hadn’t already paid a heavy price. Something about her, or possibly her plight, felt familiar.
“Can you not take off the cloak and leave the Red Rider’s Hood behind?” Damselle asked.
“Don’t you have any brains? Make it that easy to leave and no one would ever stay. We can’t take the cloaks off, silly girl. Go long without wearin’ the cloak and your life is slowly drained from your body. Remove the cloak and you got ‘bout half a day, maybe, till you die. Got to wear it, got to serve the Riders. Can’t never stop wearin’ it.”
“Spirits preserve me,” Ixby whimpered from Damselle’s shoulder.
Damselle stared at the woman in dismay. “It’s cursed,” Damselle whispered. “Sort of like… like…”
“You?” The Rider raised an eyebrow.
Damselle shifted on the worn cobblestones. “Like my name.”
The woman gave a curt nod and pursed her lips, as if she had expected nothing different. The sky above was beginning to fade into pre-dawn pinkness. The Red Rider was watching her again with an inquisitive gleam in her eye.
“And there’s no way to fix it?” Damselle asked. “There has to be. Somewhere.”
“None I ever heard of. Maybe some faery magic somewhere, but I don’t meet a whole lot of faeries ‘round here to ask ‘em.”
Faery magic. The thought came to Damselle suddenly, then, and escaped her mouth before she had time to think. “I know a faery,” she said. “My faery godmother.”
The Rider snorted. “So?”
“Well.” Damselle wavered, tracing a crack in the ground with the toe of her shoe. Then she spoke quickly in one long breath: “I am on my way to find my faery godmother, and I cannot promise she’ll be welcoming, but she seems to be very powerful, and I’m going to find a way to trade with her to change my cursed name so perhaps she could do something for you, as well.”
Ixby muttered something, but the Rider only gave a disdainful cackle. “You’re a foolish girl. You don’t know a thing about me. I could have trussed you up and cooked you on a fire six times since I’ve been natterin’ on.”
Damselle swallowed, but she did not back away like she wanted to. “But you didn’t.”
“Anyway, I’m not in the habit of followin’ little girls on queer quests, chasin’ after faeries and the like.”
“All right,” Damselle threw her hands up and turned to hurry from the neighborhood. “It was just a thought, and I’m sorry I had it.”
The Rider spat on the ground. “Don’t need charity, either.”
Ixby sighed in relief.
“Fine. Have it your way.” Damselle shook her head. It was a foolish idea anyway, pity for a Red Rider. “Let’s go, Ixby.”
Ixby hopped into the air and followed her toward the woods in the distance. This was a bad way to start her quest. She’d already been accosted by a criminal and Ixby nearly taken, and she hadn’t even left town yet. They made their way through the narrow alleys of the Red Rider’s Hood and toward the town’s eastern exit. The gate was little more than a ruddy, disused archway that led out of Woodswyck. It was silhouetted against the brightening sky and Damselle sped up as she saw its outline. She just had to get out of town and across the field into the woods. Then her quest would really begin.
“Oi,” said a familiarly raspy voice, and someone jumped out in front of her.
Damselle yelped and stumbled away. “Stars above,” she breathed. “How did you get in front of us?”
The Red Rider from earlier waved her hand indifferently and lowered her hood. “Your faery godmother can get rid of me cloak?”
“I don’t know that,” Damselle said.
“What if she can’t do it? What then?”
Damselle raised an eyebrow. “Then I suppose you’ll have wasted your obviously very valuable time.”
“Hmm.” The Red Rider scrunched her wispy brow, looked over her shoulder, and then back at Damselle. “All right. I’ll come.”
Ixby moaned “Oh no!” and clutched at his tunic.
“I reckon you’ve got as good a reason as anybody to go chasin’ after a faery,” said the Rider. “If you can do it, I can too.”
“As you know, being in my company is dangerous even at the best of times,” Damselle warned.
“I ain’t scared of monsters, girl. I am a monster.”
“All right, then,” Damselle said, nodding at the woman. “Do you have a name?”
“’Course I have a name. What sort of fog-brained question is that? ’Fore I joined the Red Riders, I was called Blanchette. Silly ol’ name if ever I heard one,” she said. Then she shrugged her bony shoulders and added, “Everyone calls me Biddy now.”
At that, Damselle marched a very strange company out of Woodswyck and toward the enormous swaying trees of the enchanted Willowwax. The forest was huge and frightening and full of terrible things. It was the one place Damselle truly had no business. It was also the one place she had to go.
*
Great willow trees swayed in the slight breeze. Their droopy branches reached for Damselle, beckoned her into The Willowwax, and she halted abruptly at the edge of the woods. Ixby, who had been flying behind her, crashed into the back of her head. There was a musky dampness to the air, filled with the smell of wet bark, morning dew, and green leaves.
“Okay, I can do this.” Damselle rocked back and forth, staring at the inconceivably high tree tops.
“Are you well?” asked Ixby, extricating himself from the mass of deep red curls.
“Of course.” That was a lie. Dreadful things were said to live in these woods. Horrors with great fangs and snatching claws were rumored to lurk within the forest, dangerous to the luckiest of wanderers. Now she, Damselle, magnet for misfortune, led two travelers straight into the thick of it.
“What’d she stop for?” growled Biddy. She stomped up to the forest line and stopped next to Damselle. “I ain’t left the Rider’s Hood to stand outside these ruddy trees. Never been a fan of shrubbery.”
“Miss Damselle is worried about entering The Willowwax,” squeaked Ixby before Damselle had time to answer.
“Most the stuff said ‘bout them woods is a load of poppycock,” said Biddy, turning her hooded face to Damselle.
“It is not!” said Ixby. “There are beautiful and terribly evil creatures in the woods.”
Biddy marched closer to Ixby and jabbed a gnarled finger at him. “How’s the Icksy know what’s in the woods?”
“Because I am a creature of magic!” With a little cough he added, “And I’ve listened to the Wood-Ixbies’ stories.”
A long, piercing howl from deep in the forest split the air and cut off Biddy’s retort. Ixby jumped and buried himself in Damselle’s hair, shivering so hard he made her head shake.
“I’ve read a book about The Willowwax,” Damselle said. She crossed her arms across her cloak. “The writer supposedly died of his wounds soon after emerging.”
“A bleedin’ ghost wrote the book, did he?”
“He compiled the notes while he was in the woods.” Damselle narrowed her eyes, feeling increasingly sorry she’d asked the woman along.
“Pah! Books!” said Biddy. “I trust ’em as far as I can throw ’em.”
“Which I’m assuming would be rather far.”
Biddy sniffed.
“It’s filled with such creatures and trials as you cannot even imagine.” Damselle raised an eyebrow. “Does your cloak protect you from those? Never mind, we will have to enter sooner or later. I know of no other way to find any of the gifts we need to give to Alyas.”
“Sooner rather than later, then. I’d not fancy seein’ one of me brothers or sisters from the Hood ‘fore we leave,” said Biddy, pointing back toward the border of Woodswyck.
“Your siblings joined as well?” asked Ixby.
“’Course not,” snorted Biddy. “We’re all considered family in the Hood, and I’m committin’ an act of betrayal here. No, if they turned up now, they would remove me skin along with me cloak. Tempers, they have. Probably make the girl join, too, or die. Then they’d take the Icksy for sellin’ or tradin’. I suppose they’d—”
“Enough!” Damselle said. “I won’t be followed by knights and I won’t be chased by angry Red Riders.” She cast a wary eye back the way they’d come. “I’ll take my chances in the woods. Come on!”
Damselle left her town behind with single step. The others followed her into the dark shadows of The Willowwax. After several moments of aimless walking and gaping, Ixby tugged on her hair. “Where should we go from here?"
Damselle pulled up short. It was a valid question, and she began to realize she was perhaps not as prepared as she should have been. Her nighttime flight from home had not allowed her a chance to procure a map of the woods, if such a thing existed. She wiggled her shoes around in the dark earth. The ground was soft from the morning dew. Reluctantly, she turned to Biddy. “Have you come here before?”
The Rider shrugged. “A bit, sure. All Riders do.”
“But you know the woods?”
“Not all that well.” She shrugged again. “We only just come past the border. To meet the smugglers, and we got to keep away from the bloody woodsmen that lurk about. Killjoys, the lot of ’em.”
Damselle sighed and began walking again. “I think we should look for the faery’s tale first.”
“Faery tale? Like a story?” Biddy cocked her head, allowing some of the pale light to illuminate her harsh features.
“Yes, like a story. I think we should look for it first, and perhaps the faeries can give us some guidance as to the rest.”
“Pah! Faeries!” said Biddy. “I never liked ’em.”
“Is there anyone you do like?”
“You, if you get me to this mysterious faery godmother of yours.”
“Perfect,” Damselle rolled her eyes. “I’ll try really hard then.” She tried walking faster to keep ahead of the woman in red, but the Rider was spry and quick despite her haggard form. It had been a mistake asking her along.
Ixby buzzed up beside her. “Faeries are hard to find if they don’t want to be found.”
Damselle looked at him, then smacked her forehead. “Of course you know where they are, Ixby. You’re a magical creature; you’ll be able to find them, surely.”
“Not exactly.” He shook his head. “There might be signs of their dwellings, but those are also hard to find. I may know one if I see one, Miss, but I cannot make any promises.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
Ixby stared around the bright green woods with wide eyes. “We could follow that path,” he said, pointing.
“Oh, this should be great,” Biddy grumbled.
Damselle and Biddy walked for the better part of a day, deeper and deeper into the woods. There were no signs of faeries, according to Ixby, who flew around their shoulders squeaking things like, “What if we run into a terrible creature?” and “This path seems unsafe!” and “Maybe we are going the wrong way!”
“If you don’t stopper it, Icksy, I’ll stuff you in me pocket for safe keepin’,” Biddy told him. After that, he kept his nervous muttering to a low hum.
Eventually, the path led them to a very strange tree that grew like a leafy sentry near a large cave. The tree was unlike any Damselle had seen before. The trunk was thick, the width of several normal trees. Its mahogany roots, bowed under enormous pressure, propped the entire tree off the ground so there were several feet between the soft earth and the tree itself. The top of the tree sprouted short, stubby branches with tufts of green leaves that seemed out of proportion with the tall, thick trunk.
“That’s a Tumtum tree, that is,” said Biddy
“You’re right!” Damselle gasped. “They’re rare and have all sorts of magical properties. They are said to make great shelters, and I can see why.” She gazed up at the purpling sky. “We should stay here for the night.”
“Sleep under a tree? Don’t tell me walkin’ a few miles in the woods made you ‘one with nature’ and all that rubbish? There’s a cave a few steps away, girl,” Biddy said. “It’s not so out in the open as that tree.”
“Trees make excellent shelters,” said Ixby.
Damselle regarded the cave. It was a dark hole in the side of a hill. It brought back an unpleasant memory of when she had become lost on her eighth birthday.
“I don’t think we should stay in the cave,” she said.
“Ooh, look who’s a right little woodsie-woman now. I’m sleepin’ in the cave, and don’t you two come crawlin’ in when you’re scared of the night noises.”
Damselle glowered at her. “We shouldn’t split up, Rider.”
“Comin’ along, then?”
Damselle wanted to strangle the woman with her red cloak. “No, I am not. Ixby and I are staying out here, and you should too. For…safety in numbers.” Damselle had never had luck with such a notion, but she tried to sound convincing. She strode to the Tumtum tree, ducked, and walked underneath. She could not stand straight, but only had to hunch her shoulders. Surprisingly, Biddy followed her under the tree’s roots.
“You are staying with us?”
“Safety in numbers,” was all Biddy said.
Damselle, Biddy, and Ixby settled silently down into the soft soil beneath the tree. As it grew dark, Biddy struck a fire and muttered to herself about sleeping in the open. Damselle handed the woman an orange from her pack. She removed an apple for herself and shared a slice with Ixby, who dribbled juice down his white tunic.
As she chewed, Damselle couldn’t help but feel as if something was amiss. It was a bit like an itch between her shoulder blades she could not reach. She looked at her companions, but they seemed untroubled. She pushed the uneasiness from her mind.
An hour later, Ixby had settled his nerves and fallen asleep, curled up and snoring by the fire. Damselle attempted to fill the silence by asking Biddy more about her life before the Red Riders. She was rewarded with cold glares, so she offered her own story to ease the tension.
“I learned that to counter this curse I must travel to my faery godmother, Alyas, and bargain with her to rename myself,” she concluded.
“Hm,” Biddy said, apparently more eager to talk about someone else than herself. “Too bad. ‘Damselle’s’ not a bad name. Better than ‘Blanchette.’ Awful.”
Damselle smiled weakly. It would be strange to be called by a different name, but what choice did she have? “I have no other way to fight things like harpies and trolls and all the other sorts of things that find me. Actually, I have no way to fight at all. I don’t even have a weapon.”
“Well that’s stupid,” Biddy said. She eyed Damselle skeptically for a moment, then bent down and reached into her crimson boot. From it, she produced a small silver dagger with a red hilt. “I don’t know what we’ll face out here, girl, but I won’t come rushin’ to save you ‘cause you can’t help yourself. And I’ll not have you gettin’ me killed, got it?” She handed the dagger to Damselle.
“Won’t you need it?” asked Damselle, taking the blade.
“You think I walk around with naught but one weapon up me sleeve?” snorted Biddy. “I’d have been dead years ago.” The orange firelight reflected in her pale blue eyes.
The small tree shelter was quiet for several minutes as Damselle cut a strip of cloth off the hem of her dress and wrapped it tight around her waist, then slipped the dagger inside the new belt. Then she wrapped the blade. It wasn’t a large weapon, but she felt it likely had a history of defending its previous owner, and that made her feel more secure than the old kitchen knife had.
Damselle realized suddenly what that earlier itch had been. Nothing had attacked them. She was in a forest full of evil, untamed, magical creatures and had not been touched so far. It had been too easy.
A wild and desperate fear spread through her body in ripples. She looked at Biddy and Ixby. Then she heard it: breathing. Heavy breathing from close by. She moved to stand and hit her head on the tree trunk above her.
“What is it?” Biddy squawked, and Damselle clamped a hand over the woman’s cloak-obscured mouth.
“There’s something out there,” Damselle whispered.
Biddy listened and then nodded. “Ah, Dunes of Darkness. I must be gettin’old.”
Damselle felt as if her heart had crept into her throat. Her head throbbed from banging it on the tree. Not now, she thought. Please, no distress now.
“Better wake the Icksy,” said Biddy as she looked around.
“Tell him to be calm.”
“Like that’ll happen,” muttered Biddy. Still, she crawled over to the snoring Ixby and poked him.
Damselle couldn’t begin to guess what was out there, but one thing was for certain: it had come for her, and if she did nothing, her quest would end before it began. She crouched down and crept toward the bowed roots. The breathing grew louder. The creature did not seem able to or willing to come under the tree. Maybe it was waiting for her to come out.
It must be very large. Or very clever. Or both.
Damselle plucked a broken branch from the ground and used the fire to light it.
“Oh, Miss Damselle,” squealed Ixby, who flapped wildly around the shelter. “What are you doing? You’ll catch the tree on fire! You’ll bring the creature into the shelter! You’ll—”
The Rider grabbed hold of Ixby and stuffed him in some mysterious pocket where his tiny voice was muffled. Damselle held the burning branch in front of her, walked back to the Tumtum tree’s roots, and took a deep breath. In one swift motion, she threw the torch outward. It made a tall fiery arc in the air and, in the seconds before it was snuffed out, illuminated long, gleaming white teeth. She yelped and fell backward into Biddy, who whispered in a raspy voice, “Jabberwock.”
