Fablehaven: The Complete Series (120 page)

Grief flickered across Doren’s features. “I’m getting by. He was a straw-brained, long-winded, skirt-chasing rascal, but he was my best pal. Sorry about your big islander friend.”

“We need to get these tents set up,” Grandpa announced. “Would you care to lend us a hand?”

Doren suddenly appeared uncomfortable. “Right, about that, I’d love to, but the thing is, it turns out I promised a few of the dwarfs I’d swing by to see how they’re settling in.” He started backing away. “You all mean much more to me than they do, but I can’t let our special bond interfere with an ironclad commitment, especially when the little fellows are out of their element.”

“Understandable,” Grandpa said.

“We’ll catch up more later, after you get the—um—after you get more settled.” He turned and trotted away.

Grandpa brushed his hands together as if wiping off dust. “The most surefire way to part company with a satyr is to mention work.”

“Why’d you scare him off?” Seth asked.

“Because satyrs can chatter for hours, and I need Kendra to join me on the pier.”

“Now?” Kendra asked.

“There’s no reason to delay.”

“Let me guess,” Seth said. “I’m not invited.”

“Too many spectators may impede contact,” Grandpa said. “You’re welcome to assist Warren and Dale with the tents. Kendra, let’s not forget that photograph of Patton.”

* * *

Seth walked with Kendra and Grandpa toward the cart before veering away, hustling to join a line of dwarfs trooping by. None stood much taller than his waist. “How are you men doing?” he asked.

When they looked up, he saw that despite their sparse whiskers, they were all women. One of them spat at his feet. He hopped away from the loogie.

“Sorry, I’m nearsighted,” Seth said.

The dwarfs continued on their way, paying him no further heed. Seth jogged toward the pond. Who wanted to set up tents when all these amazing creatures were corralled for his enjoyment? Besides, it would give Warren and Dale an occasion for brotherly bonding.

Seth was impressed by the quantity of satyrs. He had vaguely assumed Newel and Doren might be the only ones. But he counted at least fifty trouncing about, some older than others, some shirtless, others wearing vests, their fur ranging from black to brown to red to gold to gray to white.

The satyrs possessed boundless energy. They chased hamadryads, danced in clusters, wrestled, and played spontaneous acrobatic games. Although their boisterous antics were inviting, Seth’s association with Newel and Doren had stripped away some of the satyrs’ mystique. He was more curious to interact with the creatures he had never seen.

He sidled up to the gathering of dryads. There were about twenty of the slender ladies, not one of them shorter than six feet. Several had the bronze skin of Native Americans. Some were pale, others ruddy. They all had leaves and twigs twined in their long tresses.

“You’ve got the right idea, brother,” said a voice in his ear. Startled, Seth turned and found Verl beside him, gawking at the dryads. “The hamas are girls—these are women.”

“I’m not after a girlfriend,” Seth assured him.

Verl smiled wolfishly and winked. “Right, none of us are, we’re well-traveled gentlemen, above all that. Look, if you need backup, just give me the signal.” He nudged Seth toward the regal women. “Save the redhead for me.”

The two redheads Seth could see were at least a head taller than Verl. Having the love-starved satyr at his side made him suddenly self-conscious. The women were not only lovely—they were intimidating in their numbers and their uncommon height. He backed away sheepishly.

“No, Seth, no!” Verl panicked, falling back with him. “Don’t waffle now. You were there! The black one on the left was giving you the eye. Do you need an icebreaker?”

“You got me flustered,” Seth muttered, continuing his retreat. “I just wanted to meet a dryad.”

Verl shook his head knowingly and clapped him on the back. “Don’t we all?”

Seth shrugged away from him. “I need some alone time.”

Verl lifted his hands. “The man needs some space. I can relate. Want me to run interference for you, keep away the hangers-on?”

Seth stared at the satyr, uncertain what he meant. “I guess.”

“Consider it done,” Verl said. “Tell me, how did you meet Newel and Doren?”

“I was accidentally stealing stew from an ogress. Why?”

“Why, he asks. Are you pulling my leg? Newel and Doren are only the coolest satyrs in all of Fablehaven! Those guys can land babes with a wink at fifty yards!”

Seth was beginning to grasp that Verl was the satyr equivalent of a nerd. If he wanted to get away, it would require some finesse. “Hey, Verl, I just caught the redhead staring at you.”

Verl blanched. “No.”

Seth tried to keep his face composed. “Absolutely. Now she’s whispering to her friend. Her eyes are still on you.”

Verl smoothed a hand over his hair. “What’s she doing now?”

“I almost don’t know how to describe it. She’s smoldering at you, Verl. You should go talk to her.”

“Me?” he squeaked. “No, no, not yet, I better let this simmer for a while.”

“Verl, this is your moment. The timing will never be better.”

“I hear you, Seth, but honestly, I don’t feel right about horning in on your territory. I’m no claim jumper.” He raised a fist. “Good hunting.”

Seth watched Verl scamper hastily away, then set his eyes on the centaurs. They had not moved since Seth had spotted them. Both were men from the waist up, astonishingly broad and muscular, with brooding expressions. One had the body of a silver horse; the other was chocolate brown.

After the dryads, the surly centaurs suddenly seemed much less intimidating.

Seth started toward them. They watched him approach, so he kept his eyes lowered most of the way. There was no denying it—these were the most impressive creatures within view.

As he drew near, Seth looked up. They glowered down at him. Seth folded his arms and glanced over his shoulder, trying to act jaded and casual. “These idiotic satyrs are driving me nuts.”

The centaurs regarded him without comment.

“I mean, a guy can hardly find any peace to process all the recent trouble around here. And to dissect the important issues. You know?”

“Are you making sport of us, young human?” asked the silver centaur in a melodious baritone.

Seth decided to break character. “I just wanted to meet you two.”

“We don’t commonly socialize,” said the silver centaur.

“We’re all stuck here,” Seth replied. “Might as well get acquainted.”

The centaurs considered him grimly. “Our names are difficult to pronounce in your language,” said the brown centaur, his voice deeper and gruffer than the other’s. “Mine translates as Broadhoof.”

“Call me Cloudwing,” the other said.

“I’m Seth. My grandfather is the caretaker.”

“He needs more practice taking care of things,” Broadhoof scoffed.

“He’s saved Fablehaven before,” Seth countered. “Give him time.”

“No mortal is fit for such a task,” Cloudwing asserted.

Seth batted at a fly. “I hope you’re wrong. I haven’t noticed many centaurs around here.”

Cloudwing stretched his arms, triceps bulging. “Most of our kind assembled at a different refuge.”

“The ring of stones?” Seth asked.

“You know of Grunhold?” Broadhoof sounded surprised.

“Not the name. I just heard there was another place at Fablehaven that repelled dark creatures.”

“We belong there, with our kind,” Broadhoof said.

“Why not make a run for it?” Seth asked.

Cloudwing stamped a hoof. “Grunhold is far from here. Considering how the darkness has spread, it would be irresponsible to attempt the journey.”

“Have any of your kind been contaminated?” Seth asked.

Broadhoof scowled. “Some. Two who were scouting with us were changed and chased us here.”

“Not that any portion of Fablehaven will serve as a refuge much longer,” Cloudwing said. “I question whether any magic can indefinitely withstand such pervasive darkness.”

“We have introduced ourselves,” Broadhoof declared. “If you will excuse us, young human, we prefer conversing in our own tongue.”

“Okay, good to meet you,” Seth said with a small wave.

The centaurs gave no response, nor did they proceed to speak with each other. Seth walked away, disappointed not to hear what their language sounded like, certain their stern eyes were boring into his back. Doren was right. Centaurs were jerks.

* * *

Kendra gazed down at the framed sepia photograph. Even with old-fashioned hair and a heavy mustache, Patton had been a strikingly handsome man. He was not smiling, but something in his expression screamed playful cockiness. Of course, her perception might be tainted by her having read so many entries in his journals.

Grandpa walked beside her onto the little pier that projected from the base of one of the gazebos. On one side of the pier floated the boathouse Patton had constructed. The pond was basically smooth. She saw no sign of the naiads. Her gaze wandered to the island at the center of the pond, where the tiny shrine to the Fairy Queen lay hidden among the shrubs.

“I think I’ll also ask Lena if we can get the bowl back,” Kendra said.

“The bowl from the shrine?” Grandpa asked.

“I was talking to a fairy earlier this summer, Shiara, who told me the naiads claimed the bowl as a trophy.”

Grandpa frowned. “They guard the shrine. I assumed that trusting the bowl to their care would be the best way to ensure it was returned, since treading on the island is forbidden.”

“Shiara said I wouldn’t have been punished for personally returning it. Her words felt true. I was thinking, if I could get the bowl—”

“—maybe you could use it as an excuse to safely gain access to the island and approach the Fairy Queen about the plague. The odds for success aren’t terrific, but we can at least inquire about the bowl.”

“Right,” Kendra said. She strode down the pier, glancing back when Grandpa did not accompany her.

“I’ll hang back and let you call to Lena,” Grandpa said. “I had no luck last time.”

Kendra walked to the end of the quay, stopping a few feet from the edge. She knew not to get near enough to the water for the naiads to grab hold of her. “Lena, it’s Kendra! We need to talk.”

“Look who blew in with the homeless land-plodders,” said a snide female voice from below the water.

“I thought that puppet would have strangled her by now,” responded a second speaker.

Kendra scowled. Upon one of her previous visits to the pond, the naiads had released Mendigo. Still under orders from Muriel the witch, the limberjack had snatched Kendra and taken her to the hill where the Forgotten Chapel once stood.

“You might as well summon Lena,” Kendra stated. “I brought her a present she’ll want to see.”

“You may as well hobble away on your clumsy stilts,” admonished a third voice. “Lena wants nothing to do with ground-stalkers.”

Kendra raised her voice even more. “Lena, I brought a picture of your favorite land-plodder. A photograph of Patton.”

“Go dig a hole and lie in it,” hissed the first voice with a hint of desperation. “Even a dull-witted air-gulper should recognize when her company is undesired.”

“Grow old and die,” spat another naiad.

“Kendra, wait!” called a familiar voice, dreamy and musical. Lena drifted into view, her upturned face just below the surface of the water. She looked even younger than the last time Kendra had seen her. Not a trace of gray remained in her black hair.

“Lena,” Kendra said, “we need your help.”

Lena regarded Kendra with her dark, almond-shaped eyes. “You mentioned a photograph.”

“Patton looks very handsome in it.”

“What would Lena care about some dry old picture?” squealed a voice. Other naiads tittered.

“What do you need?” Lena inquired sedately.

“I have good reason to believe Patton brought a second artifact to Fablehaven. I’m talking about the serious artifacts, the ones the Society wants. Do you know anything about it?”

Lena stared at Kendra. “I remember. Patton made me pledge not to share the secret unless it was absolutely necessary. That man was so funny about his mysteries. As if any of it really mattered.”

“Lena, we absolutely need to locate the artifact. Fablehaven is on the brink of collapse.”

“Again? Do you hope to trade the photograph for information about the artifact? Kendra, the water would ruin it.”