The Forest at the Edge of the World Read online

  Copyright © 2013 Patricia Strebel Mercer

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1481896368

  ISBN-10:1481896369

  Contact author via website: forestedgebooks.com

  Because my sisters Judy and Barbara

  knew how to hold their tongues,

  but usually wouldn’t.

  MAPS

  A pronunciation guide to some of the more

  unusual names . . .

  Nicko Mal

  NEE-koh MAL

  Querul

  KWER-el

  Idumea

  i-doo-ME-uh

  Hogal Densal

  HOE-gal DENS-al

  Mahrree Peto

  MARR-ee PAY-toh

  Cephas Peto

  SEE-fus PAY-toh

  Hycymum Peto

  HIE-si-mum PAY-toh

  Hierum

  HIE-rum

  Tuma Hifadhi

  TOO-muh hi-FOD-hee

  Sonoforen

  sun-uv-OR-en

  Terryp

  TARE-up

  Jaytsy

  JAYT-see

  Brisack

  BRIZ-ak

  Gizzada

  gi-ZAH-duh

  For background information on all character names and derivations, visit forestedgebooks.com/characters

  Prologue ~ “Words for Weeds?”

  “So . . . you really destroyed the world?”

  The old woman kneeling in the pumpkin patch sat back on her heels and looked up at her accuser. The sunlight illuminated his worried look, betraying his attempt at nonchalance.

  The woman smirked. Thirteen-year-olds weren’t known for their subtlety. She tucked a wisp of gray hair behind her ear. “Not exactly.”

  But the look in the boy’s eyes suggested he didn’t believe her. She’d seen this happen before, with other thirteen-year-olds. He was now ready for the knowledge, and for many moons he would struggle to regard her as he used to, because the old woman he thought he knew turned today into something much more. There had always been the stories, but today he heard the story.

  The old woman noticed a movement behind the boy. His cousin was picking her way through the pumpkins, wearing the same anxious-stunned look. She was thirteen too.

  “Now I understand why you didn’t teach the lesson,” she said when she reached them. The girl warily eyed the small woman. “So, Muggah . . . is it all true?”

  Muggah positioned herself more comfortably in the dirt—that was why she wore her brown cotton skirt and tunic—and put her hands on her hips. “Depends on who told the story this time.”

  “We were told that you are—” the girl swallowed nervously before continuing, “—the most dangerous woman in the world?”

  Muggah rolled her eyes dramatically. “Let me guess: a certain general told you that?” Her voice dripped contempt.

  The children nodded and, for the first time, began to relax.

  “You know how he likes to weave a story,” she reminded them.

  Finally the cousins smiled. Muggah was still as they remembered her.

  Sort of.

  “I can give you the real story, the more accurate version.” She winked at them.

  They grinned. “That’s what we were hoping,” the boy said, sounding relieved.

  “Ah, but I have so much weeding to do.” Muggah sighed sadly. “So much work . . .”

  The cousins exchanged a knowing glance, and then dropped to their knees. Their mothers had purposely sent them out in their work clothes.

  “Words for weeds?” the girl asked.

  Muggah nodded. “Words for weeds, Hycie. And Vid, it wasn’t exactly destroyed. The world’s still there, right?”

  The boy shrugged. “I don’t know, Muggah. Is it?”

  She gestured to the garden. The children immediately started pulling unwanted vines and yellow flowers.

  Muggah smiled and leaned back to let the sun beat down upon her. The afternoon was going to be easy, just as she expected.

  “Now, we’ll begin with Oren, in the year 317. I always like to start with an end, because that’s the way to get a beginning . . .”

  Chapter 1 ~ “The chicken thing

  was just a misunderstanding.”

  It was his Last Day.

  For any other person, that would have explained the lost-in-thought expression on his face as he sat alone in the quiet hall. But the thickest ruler of the world had only ever been “lost.” He gave other people slips of gold to do “thought” part for him.

  He also didn’t know it was his Last Day. But that was about to change.

  ---

  “King Oren!” shouted the voice across the empty throne room.

  The middle-aged king looked up from his gold and leather throne. He saw the old professor—white haired and squatty—enter into the long hall filled with windows. He had a way of perpetually trembling, Oren had noticed some time ago, which made this tufty hair quiver like an agitated skunk. Oren always liked skunks.

  The afternoon sun illuminated the other professors that Oren employed as his advisors, as well as the High General and about a dozen soldiers in blue woolen uniforms who followed. Oren didn’t like the High General. Everything about him was too hard and gray, like a rock come to life, and it wasn’t happy about it.

  Oren gulped.

  “We all are here this day,” the professor gestured to those behind him, “to deliver our judgment and punishment, on the 47th Day of Planting Season, the year 317—”

  “I know what day it is,” King Oren offered helpfully.

  “—to announce to you that . . . what?” the old professor squinted.

  “The date. You don’t need to tell me anymore. I figured out how to read calendars a few years ago, remember?”

  “Did you hear that?” the professor announced to the men behind him. “Forty-four years old, and Oren now knows how to tell the date!”

  “Right after I hired you, we spent several days going over the dating system,” Oren continued, not recognizing the sarcasm in his advisor’s voice. But Oren did realize that Professor Mal was trembling even more than usual. He seemed to always do that just before he’d start yelling. “We have four seasons, 91 days in each, and each year starts again in Planting Season, although I always thought it was in the middle of Raining, but—”

  The professor, incredulous, turned to the High General. “Do you still insist he deserves my carefully prepared speech? Listen to him babbling!”

  “—it does make more sense for the year to begin in Planting, since dogs—”

  The High General, a hulking man in his fifties, sighed loudly. “Nicko, we went over this.”

  “—although I’m sure the cats disagree—” Oren scratched his chin and lost his thought. The High General’s gravelly voice always made him forget what he was talking about.

  It was cats, Oren suddenly remembered.

  He like cats—not skunks.

  Simple mistake. Both are the same size, same shape, just different coloring. It was easy to confuse a skunk for his cat lost in the mansion’s compound at night.

  But do it four times, and the servants begin to complain.

  “King Oren deserves to know why this judgment is bei
ng handed down to him.” The High General’s face tightened as the king raised his hand to say something.

  “Whatever happened to my cat? Mal, I haven’t seen her around for—”

  “Oren!” Professor Mal bellowed, his white hair shaking. “Shut up!”

  The King of the World clamped shut his mouth and cowered on his throne. Mal never did like his cat.

  Or maybe it was the skunk he didn’t like. The smell, Oren—don’t you notice the smell?! Mal had yelled that at him once when he wrestled the skittish, terrified cat into the mansion, only to realize he had the wrong animal. It was the smell of worry, Oren had thought. He knew that smell intimately. Surely his cat would feel worry, too—

  Mal straightened his woolen jacket. “We’re here to explain to you why you’ll no longer be ruling our world nor occupying that chair.”

  “This has to do with the market last week, right?” Oren squeaked, beginning to make his own scent of worry. “The silk cloak?”

  “Among other things, yes!”

  “Because I have that figured out now,” Oren said, trying to avoid the steady glare of the High General. Normally he enjoyed looking at all the shining medals, counting the stitched patches on his blue uniform, and admiring the silverwork on the hilt of his sword. But today the High General of Idumea’s army had an even harsher expression which refused to let Oren focus on his uniform.

  “You see,” Oren started, “you explained to me that even though I possess the world—”

  “That’s only what your grandmother claimed,” Mal reminded him.

  Oren kept going, because Mal always said that and he didn’t know why. “—I just can’t take from it what I want. People get mad when I raise taxes so that I can make my mansion lovelier. But I can’t get more things if I don’t have more slips of gold or silver, and I have to take those from the people. So when I took that silk cloak last week, I didn’t give any slips of gold because I didn’t have any, and I didn’t want to take any. Instead of taking gold that’s mine but being held by the people, I just took the cloak!” He smiled proudly. It had taken him all night to work that out, but finally he got it. And without any of his advisors’ help.

  He never followed what they said anyway.

  Mal closed his eyes. “High General, do we really have to continue this? He’s a waste of my breath—”

  “Nicko, tell the man. This will be put on the message boards, remember?” he said out of the corner of his mouth. “Laws to follow? You know full well that how history is recorded is how it’s understood. The world needs to understand this in the right way.”

  Oren heard his low muttering, but just didn’t worry about it. Life was so much easier when you stop worrying about the bits that make no sense.

  The High General glanced over at the nervous scribe in the corner who was trying to read his lips. The man immediately hunched back over the stack of parchment on his small desk and returned to his scrawling.

  Mal grudgingly opened his eyes. “Your theft in the market place caused a riot,” he resumed his explanation to Oren. “Remember us telling you about that?”

  Oren nodded slowly. It seemed to be a rather good party.

  “And that riot spread to nearly each of the seventeen villages surrounding Idumea. We’ve been hearing reports of deaths and chaos, and the army has been dispatched to quell the riots in villages where we didn’t even need forts before. The world has been devastated by your ineptitude!”

  Oren silently mouthed in-ep-ti-tude. Mal liked big words. Oren didn’t.

  The scribe hurriedly dipped his quill in the ink and scribbled on the parchment.

  Mal cleared his throat and resumed his speech. “Since your ancestor Querul the First took control of our world in 190, he didn’t stop the chaos, but added to it. Starting in 195 we suffered from the Great War for five long years. Two hundred thousand were dead at the end of it.”

  Oh, another lecture, thought Oren glumly. How many lectures had he sat through, bored to squirming because Mal said he needed an education? He’d done school. Lots of it. It was all the same. Words, writing, reading, staring out the window and waiting for something interesting to happen. As a boy he’d look at his piece of chalk and wish it could turn into a . . . into a stick, or something.

  Maybe that wasn’t too interesting. But maybe two sticks—

  “Oren?”

  The king blinked and sat up straighter to face the snarling voice that said his name.

  Mal had his arms folded, his hair so jittery that Oren knew the explosion of temper was coming at any moment. He gritted his teeth and braced himself. “Yes?”

  “Where are you?!”

  The king blinked twice at that. He looked around and considered that maybe Mal had been wrong to yell at him for years about being stupid. Clearly Mal was the one struggling right now. “We’re in the throne room,” Oren said kindly. Mal was an old man, after all.

  “Oren!”

  “Yes?” Oren was beginning to grow impatient. He wanted to go look for his cat.

  “Pay attention!” Mal bellowed.

  Oren jumped in his throne and nodded. That was the only way to calm Mal—silent obedience.

  Professor Mal cleared his throat, shot a furious look at the High General who ignored him, and continued on the same, dull lecture.

  “The violent faction who prolonged the war—the Guarders—were carelessly allowed by Querul the First to escape their punishments by fleeing to the dangerous forests beyond our borders. We weren’t saved from them. They still attack us and steal our goods!”

  Oren knew better than sigh loudly. His grandmother’s slap always reminded him that she never approved of that, and neither did Mal. Sighs always made the old professor shake more, and right now he was quivering as if he stood on his own land tremor. All Oren could do was count the medals on the High General’s uniform, and wonder what they’d look like hanging in the windows where they could catch the sun’s light.

  Maybe his cat would come back if he saw them shining . . .

  “Querul didn’t bring peace,” Mal droned on. “Neither did his son Querul the Second, a brutal and paranoid king who employed twenty percent of the population to spy on each other looking for evidence of Guarder collaboration and bringing the need for execution squads. Under his rule another twelve thousand perished, according to our best guesses. Many of them simply vanished.”

  Too many big words. But something Mal said . . .

  Oren’s thoughts shifted away from wondering if skunks liked shiny things, and he looked into Mal’s enraged eyes.

  Maybe he should pay attention.

  “His son, Querul the Third, was no better, continuing the reign of terror of his father. And his wife—your grandmother, Oren—was the most evil woman to ever stalk this world. Since she died seven years ago we’ve done all we can to undo her influence upon the world and you—”

  “She wasn’t that bad,” Oren feebly tried to defend her. He couldn’t help it. Even though she’d been gone for years, somehow she was still in his mind, pinch-lipped and pointing. That finger was gnarled and bony, but somehow it was the scariest finger in the world. And you couldn’t turn your back on it, or it’d get you.

  “She disposed of your wife and two daughters, Oren!” Mal shouted. “Do you know what happened to them?”

  That was one of those worrying things Oren found it easier to just not worry about. He timidly shook his head.

  “Never bothered to ask, did you? Your wife couldn’t produce a son, and you can’t legally have more than two children, so your grandmother cleared the way for you to have more children by various women in the world to finally produce a male! And what about your own mother, Oren? What happened to her?”

  Another worrying thing. Mal seemed to be strangely interested in those today. “Umm,” Oren began, although his grandmother also smacked him whenever he began a sentence so inarticulately, “they went for a walk. She just disappeared.”

  “Just disappeared,” Mal repeate
d tonelessly. “The wife of the king, out walking with her mother-in-law, in a city of tens of thousands, and she just disappears. I know you believed that as a boy, but still? Oren, no one would ever have accused your grandmother of kindness. She didn’t want anyone else to influence her two grandsons but her.”

  Oren’s mouth dropped open, and he absently rubbed his face where she hit him every day for the thirty-seven years she ruled his life. No—she was mean, certainly, but not . . . She’d never have—

  “Then your father, Querul the Fourth, was an idiot! Not as big as you, granted,” Mal conceded, “but—”

  “The chicken thing was just a misunderstanding,” Oren insisted. Here was something he did know about. “He didn’t want the pocks to—”

  “The chickens were never infested with a pocks, Oren!” Mal barked. “Any other thinking man would have asked for a second opinion, instead of taking the word of cattle ranchers that the chickens were ill and advancing disease! Any other man would have asked a scientist before killing off ninety percent of the world’s poultry. It took years for the world to recover from your father’s gullibility.”

  Oren bit his lip. Without even knowing what all those words were, he was beginning to suspect things weren’t going his way.

  “And then there’s you,” Mal spat. “I’ve been tutoring you for years, but to no avail. Perhaps if your older brother Querul the Fifth hadn’t died as a teen, the world may have been in a better state today, but I doubt it. He was more closely knitted to your grandmother and her love of the execution squads than you are. I suppose we have that to be grateful for,” he added. “But the world is tired, Oren. Tired of your family, tired your abuses, tired your stupidity—”

  “They could take naps,” Oren offered lamely, nothing else coming to his mind. “When they’re tired. I do. Every afternoon . . .”