BreadCrumb Trail (The Yellow Hoods, #2): Steampunk meets Fairy Tale Page 7

  “Baba, why is everyone screaming? Why are their guns firing? Is this a game? It’s scary. Baba, what’s happening?” she repeated. Her running father offered no response.

  They were halfway up the hill to their house when a soldier appeared in the middle of the cobblestone street. The green outfit and black sash around his waist were now a symbol of fear. Mounira’s father slowed for a moment before deciding to proceed—there was no way to know whether the soldier was friend or foe.

  As they approached, the soldier raised his rifle. Alman stopped, closed his eyes briefly, and the soldier fired. Realizing the target was behind him, Alman resumed running. Glancing over his shoulder, he spotted several other soldiers in green and black ready to return fire.

  Mounira felt a quick tingle, which erupted into intense pain. She felt her body weaken and she started to slide off her father. She could see his face melt from fear to anguish as he guided her to the ground.

  Her father’s tears fell on her face like cold droplets of ice. She wanted to reach up to wipe them, but saw only her left arm go up briefly, before coming down. She felt heavy.

  “Baba, it hurts…” she whispered with all her might.

  “Mouni!” he yelled. She tried to understand why he was so upset, but passed out.

  She awoke in the back of a horse-drawn wagon. She saw her father walking beside it, and then she fell asleep again. Mounira couldn’t remember how many times she’d briefly awoken, or how many times she’d tried to say she felt cold or hot. Time didn’t matter.

  In the darkness of sleep, only one thing kept her company—the pain, the horrible pain. It haunted her dreams and waking moments. She was scared, but didn’t have the strength to call for her dad. There was nowhere to run from the pain.

  In a dream, when it seemed like the pain was going to consume her, it started to rain. The rain was icy, familiar. The rain gave her strength. Mounira glared at the huge pain monster through the dreamy rain. Summoning all her strength, she yelled, “You will not beat me! I will show you! I am stronger than you can imagine!”

  “What did she say?” said Gretel to Hans and Saul.

  “I’m stronger than you can imagine,” repeated Mounira to herself, looking around blearily. For a moment, she was confused. Her pain had awakened her, pulling her back to the reality of the snow and the leafless tree. Perhaps the pain wasn’t always her enemy—it didn’t want to die, either. Mounira stood, shaking her head to wake up. Her pants were wet and freezing.

  “I have to keep going,” Mounira said to herself.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Driven by the Seaside

  “What’s in the shiny tube?” asked the scowling, thin-haired, unshaven man. Franklin had only just stepped into the tavern of the seaside town. To date, Franklin’s journey had been filled with thrilling and scary moments, but overall he felt he’d done well.

  With his best steely-eyed gaze, Franklin looked to the man seated at the bar. “Inside are the fingers of everyone who’s tried to nick it,” he answered sharply, yet his stomach twisted with fear.

  The scowling man squinted, sized Franklin up, and then started to laugh. “I like that, boy. I like that a lot,” he said jovially to his bar mates. “I’m going to use that next time. What’s in the bag, Grimmy? Oh, it’s the fingers of… no wait, the noses of everyone… no, I think fingers are best.”

  Franklin sighed. He’d managed to get safely to the southernmost tip of the island kingdom of Inglea, to this seaside town of Chestishire. Now, a new challenge stood ahead. It was one thing to ask if he could ride on the back of a cart to speed his journey, but it was going to take something else to get him across the waters to the shores of Freland. He’d heard tales about boys on ships finding themselves sold to service in foreign lands—and worse.

  One of Franklin’s hands held the straps to his travel bag and the brass tube. Both were slung over his shoulder. His free hand started shaking, broadcasting his feelings. He looked at it and made a fist. Spotting a suitable empty table, he sat down. He knew better than to stand on display. His clothes already stood out, but he hoped not by much.

  Franklin pulled out his last bag of coins and held it under the table’s surface. He ran his right hand through the remaining coins. “Thirty-six,” he whispered. He hoped it would be enough to hire a boat and get the rest of the way to Nikolas Klaus, but he was doubtful.

  He’d been hard on his dad about many things, especially money. They constantly seemed to be going from boom to bust and back again. Franklin believed his father saw money as a simple thing, not worth managing carefully. Now, he had newfound respect—the task was harder than he’d anticipated. Like his father, Franklin had no financial schooling, no financial role model, and no idea about what things should really cost. He knew, logically, that given he was only a third of the way through his journey, he should probably have used up at most a third of his money—but just a quarter of it remained. He owed his father an apology.

  “I can see by your scowl that you’re not used to places like this,” said the waitress as she sauntered up. She had a mess of curly reddish hair and large, friendly green eyes. Her freckles were a match for her flowery dress. Franklin was slightly intimidated by her larger frame and booming voice. She held a wooden serving tray under her arm, and Franklin imagined she could use it as a weapon, if necessary.

  Giving Franklin the once over, she put on a skeptical face. “Are you supposed to be in here? How old are you?”

  Franklin narrowed his eyes, doing his best to look intimidating. “I’m old enough to have enough money for whatever I want.” He realized how awkward that had sounded.

  “Well, a young man with words like that will soon find himself with bruises instead of money,” she replied. She gave a practiced smile. “Relax a bit. What is it you want?”

  Franklin looked around, trying to think of something. He’d briefly forgotten that in a tavern, he would be expected to order something. Though he felt guilty for using up money when there might be a cheaper alternative, he was hungry, and already here. “Do you have a sandwich? Anything that isn’t going to make me sick?” he said, feeling the grime on the table.

  The waitress rolled her eyes. “We’ll find something,” she said, and headed off.

  Franklin took a deep breath and then got out his notebook and writing materials. He uncorked his precious ink bottle and jotted down a few ideas and observations he’d been holding in mind. His thoughts then returned to the challenge that lay ahead.

  He analyzed each person in the tavern. He couldn’t see anyone who looked like a sea captain. He checked his notebook to see if he’d previously written down thoughts on hiring a boat and finding a captain—nothing useful.

  When the waitress plunked the plate of food down hard in front of him, he didn’t flinch, much to her surprise. He looked up with a smug smile. “Thought I’d jump?” he asked.

  The waitress paused to consider her answer, and decided to cut him a break. Franklin was evidently away from home, and, judging by his worn clothes, for more than a couple of days. She could detect the nervousness under his bravado.

  “Yes, I did,” she admitted. “You can’t be more than fifteen. What’s your story?” She sat down opposite him, tilted her head, and waited for his answer.

  Franklin was uncomfortable around women. Having the waitress sit and stare at him felt personal. His stomach tightened. He could feel the part of his brain that dealt with words already getting mixed up. Under the table, he clenched his fist. “Are you… allowed to sit down with customers?”

  The waitress smiled mischievously. “Oh no, of course not. I’m sure in a moment the owner will come over—to throw you out. He’s the giant bald guy back there, the one with so much hair growing out his ears he could comb it over the top of his head.”

  “What?” yelped Franklin. He straightened and nervously glanced around. His naturally pale face went white, while his cheeks went red. “But I—ah—”

  The waitress laughed. “R
elax. Listen, I’m not sure what you’re doing here, but you stick out like a sore thumb. Why are you here? Maybe I can help get you on your way.” She had a soft spot for dumb boys.

  Franklin wasn’t sure whether to trust her, but he did need help. He decided to let his guard down. “I need to get across the sea… to Freland.”

  “Oh, is that all? Go to the docks, then. Why are you in the middle of town?” she said.

  “This is the middle of town?” He was certain he’d walked to the southernmost edge. He felt like an idiot, and hated that feeling.

  “I’ll admit this is a small place, but go to the docks. Did you think a boat captain was just going to walk into the bar? Reminds me of an old joke…” she laughed again, got up, and left.

  Franklin was annoyed with himself. “How did I miss that?” he said to himself.

  After a couple of minutes, the waitress returned. Since she’d left him sitting there, he’d done nothing but mentally beat himself up. She’d set fire to the internal doubt that had always existed within.

  “You haven’t touched your food. You okay?” she asked.

  He looked at his food. He didn’t want her to see the defeat in his eyes.

  The waitress now felt bad. “Oh, come now. I was just teasing. You are at the tavern closest to the docks. The docks are only half a mile down the road. Provincial rules don’t permit taverns any closer. Something about how if someone can be clear-headed enough to walk all the way to the docks from here, and then drown, then it’s the fault of the patron, not the establishment.”

  Franklin glared back in anger. She’d made a fool of him. She was nothing but a mere peasant with the nerve to play a trick on a young man of noble blood—never mind one that would change the world someday. While he enjoyed playing tricks, he couldn’t take them. His father had spoken to him about it, and he had tried to be a good sport, but it didn’t work. He had a deep-seated fear that he wasn’t actually smart—that, somehow, he was just fooling everyone. Sometimes he wondered if people just assumed he was smart because his father was a genius. At other times, the mental limits of those around him frustrated him.

  The waitress sat down again. “You don’t like having your leg pulled. Sorry, love,” she said, half-apologetically. “Wasn’t intending to upset—just trying to have a little fun. Relax! You’re all wound up so tight. If you don’t relax, you’re going to attract a wee bit more attention than just being a lost boy from a well-to-do family.”

  Her assessment surprised Franklin, but he wouldn’t show it.

  “Look,” she continued, “you’ve probably already learned that the world is different than you expected, but I can tell that you’ve seen nothing of its rougher side. You’ll need to realize the world is unlike your privileged home town. It’s rougher, but also full of amazing things.” She smiled at Franklin with a motherly look—and that rubbed Franklin the wrong way.

  She doesn’t have insight, he thought to himself. She’s just dishing out generic advice—things she heard others parroting. “Thanks,” he said coldly, folding his arms. “Your insights are… astounding.” His sarcasm was biting.

  Insulted, the waitress stood up. “Fine. Eat up, pay up, and be on your way.” She turned and walked away. “Arrogant little jerk,” she muttered.

  Franklin finished his lunch and stepped out of the tavern. He was determined to show that waitress—and all those like her—that he wasn’t some lost boy. He was going to get across to Freland and find Nikolas Klaus, no matter what.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Gingerly Lost

  Mounira stumbled clumsily in the snow.

  “Just a couple more steps,” urged Gretel. “You can do it.”

  Mounira stepped out from the tree line, spotting a large clearing surrounded by more red pines. In the midst of the clearing were the remains of a burned down old house. She looked around, confused, tears in her eyes.

  “You’ve arrived,” said Hans triumphantly. “Welcome to Mother’s house!”

  Mounira looked around wildly. “I don’t understand—there’s no house here! Just—”

  Gretel was annoyed. “This is Mother’s house. She still owns it. We used to come here and she’d tell us about the children she used to have here, long ago, before the bad men came to steal them away. That’s when she burned it down. She didn’t want anyone to know about our other house, the one where we still live.”

  Saul continued, “We thought you’d like it. You can stay here if you like.”

  “I bet she’s going to complain it has no walls,” said Hans.

  “And no roof,” said Gretel, giggling.

  Hans laughed. “Some people are so picky.” The trio went on with their banter.

  Mounira looked at the ground, shaking with rage at having been tricked. Her body was numb, except for the pain from the stump. The pain reminded her that she wasn’t asleep, that she wasn’t going to awaken shortly from the nightmare, that this was real.

  Then it dawned on Mounira that she was likely going to die in the middle of this snowy, red forest, and her rage collapsed into fear. Her lip started to tremble, and tears rolled down. “Why are you doing this?” she said, her voice breaking. “Show yourselves! Look in my eyes and tell me!”

  At the edge of the clearing, three red-hooded figures stepped into view. They wore matching red cloaks.

  The red figure on the left leaned against a tree. “We thought we should have some fun. We tracked you for a while, and thought you’d be fun. I have to say, you have been, Lefty,” said Hans.

  The figure on the right turned around. “I’m getting cold. I think it’s time we go,” said Saul, bored.

  “Just before we go,” said Gretel, the middle figure and shorter than the other two, “let me leave her a present.”

  “Breadcrumbs?” asked Saul.

  “Oh, better than that. She’d freeze to death before she could follow,” said Gretel.

  “What are you doing, now?” asked Hans, curious.

  Gretel held her hands apart so Mounira could see. “Here is some flint and steel. Seen them before? I don’t know if you southerners have such things, so let me explain. You just need to hold the flint—this part here—in one hand, and then strike down with the steel part—this piece here—in another hand… like this.” Gretel made sparks appear. “Make sure the sparks land on some dry leaves. Then, voilà, you have a nice warm fire.”

  “Oh, that’s vicious, Gretel! She only has one arm!” said Hans, bursting into laughter. “And dry leaves? Ha!”

  Gretel chuckled. “I’m going to leave these here for you.” Gretel dropped the flint and steel in the snow. “Come on, boys. Mother’s probably wondering where we are.”

  Saul looked at Mounira, nearly frozen. She was just a kid, while they were twenty years old. They’d never led someone into the forest to die before. At first, he’d thought maybe Hans was right, that it would be fun. But looking at Hans and Gretel’s faces, and looking at Mounira, he felt strange inside—unsettled.

  A moment later, the trio had vanished.

  Mounira screamed as she ran to where Gretel had dropped the items, falling twice. She couldn’t feel her feet to balance herself properly. She frantically hunted for the flint and steel with her numb hand. Her tears nearly froze her eyelashes shut.

  “I’m stronger than you imagine,” she said to herself, borrowing a phrase from her mother’s favorite book. “I am a titan. I will take the fear you have given me and make it the sword from which I will have victory.” Her teeth chattered furiously.

  She felt around in the snow with her ever-more-numb hand. Despair crept in. “Where is it?!” she yelled. Snow blew around as she frantically searched.

  “Mama, help—please. Don’t let me die here,” she said. Then, her hand hit something solid.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Grooming the Hound

  The corridor was silent as the Hound stopped to look at a particular painting he hadn’t noticed before. He looked at the oil lamps; he’d never seen
them all lit before. Studying the painting, he quickly recognized one of the three men as a younger Simon St. Malo, perhaps age twenty. A shorter, dark-bearded man, likely in his thirties, stood with his back to Simon. An older, clean-shaven man stood behind them, slightly elevated, arms behind his back. There was both a sense of camaraderie, and tension among the figures.

  The Hound looked for a nameplate at the bottom of the frame but was surprised there wasn’t one. He glanced at the other paintings in the corridor, all of which had nameplates. Just as he was about to leave, a glint of gold from the top of the painting caught his eye.

  After checking that no one was coming, the Hound carefully lifted the painting off and leaned it against the wall. He read the top nameplate and then wondered aloud, “Why are you called Faces of the new Fare? What’s a Fare?” He studied the painting for another minute, but found no better clue.

  After carefully placing the painting back on the wall, he continued his walk to the gold-trimmed double doors that sealed off Simon St. Malo’s study. The Hound’s boots picked up the same rhythm he’d had since the first time he’d walked down this corridor, months before.

  Standing at the huge doors, his stomach tightened, as it always did. He knocked on the door. An old, bald, sickly-looking man opened it. Cleeves was wearing his usual dark green and brown outfit with frills, which seemed more and more out of place compared to how those around Simon had been dressing recently.

  “Greetings, Cleeves,” said the Hound. He’d never had a conversation with the old man, but always did his best to show him respect. He still had no idea how the man might fit into the grand scheme of things.

  Cleeves looked him up and down, as he always did. It was remarkable to Cleeves how different the Hound looked and behaved now, compared with his unsightly first appearance. He liked the Hound better than he had LeLoup, but he kept that opinion to himself.