The Emperor's Ostrich Page 5

  They hit the ground and scattered, disappearing in a flash in every direction. Only one cat remained in the wagon—the gray one with the golden eyes. It sat neatly with its tail wrapped around its paws and waited.

  The driver called to the horse to stop, then jumped down from his seat. At the sight of the (almost) empty wagon, he fell to his knees and tore at his hair.

  “Whoever sent him on this errand won’t be very happy with him now, I suppose,” Begonia whispered. “I hope those poor kitties can find a safe place to sleep. And a nice bowl of milk.”

  The driver quickly unhitched the horse from the wagon. He climbed onto the horse’s back, and together they took off at a run.

  “He’s wearing the tunic of an imperial servant,” said Key. “He must have come from the palace, from the emperor. The emperor doesn’t look kindly on servants who don’t complete their tasks. That driver’ll need to flee Camellion now if he wants to avoid the dungeons.”

  They rose from their hiding place and approached the stranded wagon. At the sight of them, the gray kitty jumped gracefully down from the wagon bed and rubbed against both their ankles. Begonia bent down to pet her soft fur. The cat allowed the petting for a moment, then leaped up onto her shoulder and began deeply sniffing Begonia’s hair.

  Key’s jaw dropped. “What in the name of the emperor is she doing?”

  “Biting my hair,” replied Begonia. The kitty had begun to slide her teeth along her scalp, sniffling and chewing lovingly at her hair. It tickled.

  “But why?”

  “There’s no explaining cats,” Begonia said. “Never mind. She’s not hurting me.”

  “Shoo, cat! Shoo!” Key waved his hands at the kitty.

  Begonia backed away. “Leave her alone,” she said. “She likes me.”

  “Likes you like I like my dinner,” muttered Key. “She wants to eat you.”

  “Just my hair.”

  “Oh, well, then. Just your hair.” Key rolled his eyes and moved on.

  “Cats have always liked me.” Begonia followed after him, trying not to drop her furry stowaway. “It drives my sister, Peony, batty that our kitty, Catnip, prefers me to her. Ow! Claws!”

  They continued their march toward the sinking sun, and the cat settled down comfortably on Begonia’s shoulder, with her soft bulk pressing against her neck. Spending the night alone and outdoors felt slightly less terrifying now with this purring new friend.

  Begonia pulled the map from her pocket once more. “We need to find a place to sleep,” she said. “We’re running out of daylight.” She held the map where the sun’s rays could hit it. It seemed that they were more or less always at the center of the map. She studied the other details. Roads, shrubs, a stream.

  “Key! Is this the spot where I met you?” She pointed to the purple shrub, which was now at the very bottom of the map.

  Key nodded. “So what?”

  Begonia pointed to the two roads that forked out from that spot. “Look. This is the pasture road we took, and this is the forest road we didn’t take.” She gestured up higher on the map. “That looks like a stream, and it cuts across both roads. We’ve seen no sign of Alfalfa, so my guess is she never came this way. When we come to the stream, we could follow it to reach the forest road. Maybe we’ll find her there.”

  “I could use something to drink,” said Key.

  “Alfalfa’s probably thirsty, too,” said Begonia. “Come on! Maybe we’ll find her at last.”

  They picked up their pace and hurried onward. The sun dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky soft and golden and streaked with pink, though Begonia knew it couldn’t last long. Soon the lingering light in the sky would be gone.

  “Key,” Begonia asked, “is ‘Key’ the name your parents gave you?”

  They covered long strides of ground until Begonia wondered if he’d heard the question at all, before Key finally answered.

  “Eventually, I think,” he said. “Or else my older sisters and brothers gave me the name. They often said that I was fond of playing with keys when I was very young. And I like to tinker with locks.”

  “What do you mean, ‘eventually’?” demanded Begonia. She pushed the gray cat’s flicking tail out of her face.

  Key bent down to remove a shoe and shook a pebble out of it, hopping along on one foot in a most absurd fashion. “My parents and my relatives,” hop, hop, “weren’t the sort to name a baby.” Hop. “They don’t name pigs, either. It makes it harder to sell them. But we children gave one another nicknames sooner or later. I have a sister we call Mirror because she’s so vain.” He waved his shoe in the air. “I even have a cousin named Shoe because all he ever wanted was fancy shoes without farm muck on them.” He glanced sideways at Begonia. “The one to really feel sorry for is my brother Spit.”

  Begonia didn’t know what to say. How horrible!

  “I always thought Mumsy was strange for naming us after flowers,” she said. She glanced at her traveling companion and realized how little she knew about him.

  “You said earlier,” she said at length, “that you’d left home to search for a better one. What does that mean?”

  “Why, to seek my fortune, of course,” said Key. “Don’t you know young people who leave home in search of their fortune?”

  “Not really, no.”

  Key deflated somewhat. “Neither do I. Perhaps it’s going out of style.” He pulled his shoe back on. “I’m beginning to question whether there really is a fortune out there with my name on it. I’ve looked under every rock, every fallen log, every shrub and tree.”

  “That would explain the twigs and leaves in your hair,” muttered Begonia.

  “The what in my hair?”

  “Never mind.” She shifted the cat to her other shoulder. “Why did you really leave home, Key?”

  He gave her a long look. “One day I decided I’d hide in the pig barn and wait to see how long it would take for someone to notice I was gone.”

  Begonia’s heart sank. She feared to hear what happened next.

  “They never noticed,” Key said. “After ten days, I left.”

  “Ten days!” Begonia gasped. “My Mumsy would come hunting for me if she couldn’t find me after, oh, a few hours at most.” Was Mumsy looking for her now?

  Key patted her shoulder. “Well, as I said, that makes you lucky.”

  “What did you eat for ten days while you hid in the barn?”

  Key shrugged. “Pig slop. I was used to it.”

  Begonia shuddered. She studied her traveling companion out of the corner of one eye. He was the oddest boy she’d ever met, sticky as pine sap, and harder to get rid of than an infestation of fleas, but she couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.

  The song of water burbling over smooth stones reached their ears, and then the fresh, damp smell of well-watered grasses. They pushed their tired feet onward until, at last, they saw it up ahead—a dark stripe of land, with bushes and trees growing close by. A footbridge in the road arched over the stream while flecks of lavender sky rippled across its surface.

  The kitty leaped off Begonia’s shoulder and reached the water in one jump, where it began lapping for dear life. Key did likewise, plunging his face right into the stream. Perhaps he was unaware that his derriere revealed a hole or two in the bottom of his pants. Begonia knelt by the water and drank from her hand.

  They drank as though they’d crossed a desert. They drank till their teeth hurt and their bellies ached. Water made Begonia forget everything else. Finally, she began to feel water-woozy, and she sat up and looked around. The sky to the east was fully dark now, and the last bits of gold in the west hung low on the horizon.

  “Key,” she called to the bottoms-up boy, who still drank like a camel. “It’s nearly dark. We’ve got to get off this road and find a place to sleep.”

  Key’s dripping head rose from the river. Twigs and leaves still protruded from his now-sopping hair. In the dim light, he looked like a young and scrawny version of a river god.


  “You’re right.” He clambered to his feet, and together they picked their way through the grasses and rocks, following the creek toward the woods and the road they hadn’t taken. The cool, damp water that had felt so refreshing after their hot march now chilled Begonia. Spring nights were still cold, and she had no blanket. What kind of night would this be?

  The sky grew darker by the minute, and with the darkness came birdcalls and stirrings in grasses of the citizens of the night—animals unseen, with gruesome little snouts and claws. Bats swished and swooped overhead, and insects buzzed in Begonia’s ears. The cat curled once more against her and buried its whiskery face in Begonia’s neck. They reached the forest’s edge and almost hesitated, but, keeping close to the stream, they pressed on.

  Then Begonia saw it. In the dim forest shadows, some distance up ahead, and not far from the stream. Something white moved among the grasses.

  “Key, look!” Begonia whispered. “Do you see it?”

  Key squinted at the dark. It was only a narrow bit of white, and gray at that in the dimness, but he saw it, too.

  “Your cow?” he asked.

  “Shh.” Begonia nodded. “It must be.”

  They crouched low in the undergrowth and crept forward softly. After all this walking, Begonia had no wish to give chase, and Alfalfa, she knew, could be fast when she wanted to be. Hadn’t she already outstripped Begonia across the entire countryside?

  They were close now. They could no longer see Alfalfa through the bushes, but they could hear her breathing.

  “You go that way,” Begonia whispered, pointing to the right, “and I’ll take this side. On the count of three, we move in quickly.”

  Key agreed. He moved off a few paces.

  “One,” Begonia breathed, “two, three!”

  They burst through the undergrowth.

  There was no cow. There was—what was it?

  Gloom and shadows, then her eyes adjusted. The kitty screeched and dug her claws into Begonia’s shoulder. The shock of what they saw would return to haunt Begonia’s nightmares long afterward.

  A snake. A huge, long snake, straight upright, as tall as Begonia herself. Poised to attack, hissing and darting and weaving back and forth. With enormous eyes glinting in the darkness, and a snout like a bird’s beak.

  No. It was a bird’s beak. Not a snake’s head. That hideous, long white thing was a neck! A horrid, ropy neck.

  Attached to the neck, on the ground, lay an enormous mass. A dark body. A bird body. And curled beside it lay a small human form, dressed in dirty pajamas.

  Then the bird body rose, terrifyingly. A giant, a monster! It mounted up on gawky, mighty, scraggly legs and bolted toward them, flapping its powerful wings wide enough to knock Key and Begonia flat onto their backs.

  Begonia lay gasping on the ground. Would the monster return? Was Key all right? Where had the kitty gone?

  A thin, nasal voice rose from the ground. “Wretched peasant! You’ve scared off my ostrich. He’s probably a mile away by now, and you’d better bring him back!”

  9

  A NIGHTTIME KNOCK, AND A MOTHER’S DILEMMA

  There was a slow knock at the door. A log settled in the fireplace, and Catnip, the yellow cat, yawned with all her fangs.

  Peony, who had been allowed, under the circumstances, to stay up much past her bedtime, looked anxiously at the shadows on her mother’s face.

  “Is it Begonia, Mumsy?” she whispered.

  “Shh.” Chrysanthemumsy rose and wrapped her shawl around her throat. “You stay here.”

  She wanted desperately for it to be Begonia, but if it were her daughter, gone all day in search of a runaway cow, why would she knock? Why would she not burst right in to her own home, where her plate of dinner still sat warming by the fire, and the teakettle sputtered in anticipation? A knocking visitor … Chrysanthemumsy had raised the alarm of Begonia’s absence throughout Two Windmills, so any visitor might bring welcome news. Still, she couldn’t bear to imagine the reasons someone might knock at this hour, on this night.

  She opened the door.

  It wasn’t her daughter. Of course it was not.

  “Good evening, dearie.”

  “Madame Mustard-maker!” Mumsy tried to control the surprise in her voice. “You honor our home. Won’t you come in? Have a cup of tea?”

  Madame Mustard-maker stepped into the light spilling from the doorway. “Tea would be divine, dearie, but I’m afraid I haven’t got time. Too much to poke around in, to stir up, to sniff. My, er, mustard, you know. Needs tending at the oddest hours.”

  Oh, please, Chrysanthemumsy thought, get quickly to the point. Do you know something about my daughter? She filled her lungs with air and held it there.

  Madame Mustard-maker’s eyes crinkled kindly. She patted Chrysanthemumsy’s cheek. “Your daughter is safe, dearie. She’s walked all day in search of your missing cow. Cows can be such impish things! I had a cow once who … never mind. Your Begonia is far from home, but she’s well.”

  Chrysanthemumsy seized her hand. “How do you know?” She felt herself grow weak and shaky. “If she’s far away, how could you possibly know?”

  Madame Mustard-maker smiled. “You’ll have to trust me. I’ll look after her myself.”

  “But you’re here,” Mumsy said, “and she’s far away. Or so you said.”

  “Oops!” Madame Mustard-maker patted her fingers playfully over her lips. “I’m always saying the wrong thing. Well, you’ll have to trust me there, too. Near or far, I’ll look after her.”

  Villagers had long said Madame Mustard-maker was odd, eccentric even, but never before had Chrysanthemumsy thought she might be truly mad. Certainly not dangerous.

  “Have you taken my daughter somewhere?” Mumsy demanded.

  “Mercy me!” cried the mustard-maker. “I? Take the flower girl somewhere? How could I? I weigh less than a partridge. She said you sent her in search of the lost cow.”

  Chrysanthemumsy let out her breath. Of course the tiny, ancient mustard-maker couldn’t have taken Begonia anywhere. All this nonsense was the babble of an old woman who was slowly losing her wits. She should ignore it all.

  But hope refused to die so easily. “If you know where she is, good mother,” said Chrysanthemumsy, “won’t you take me to her?”

  Madame Mustard-maker’s eyes softened. “It’s been a long time,” she said, “but a mother never forgets how it feels to worry for her children. Not tonight, dearie.” She patted Chrysanthemumsy’s arm. “I can’t take you there tonight. But tomorrow is always full of possibilities. Take heart. Get some rest. Begonia is safe tonight. Please believe me.”

  And why should I believe you? Chrysanthemumsy wanted to say. Why should I not be more terrified than ever by your cryptic message?

  But Madame Mustard-maker’s eyes were kind. They didn’t seem like the eyes of a madwoman. Chrysanthemumsy didn’t dare take comfort from them, though the concern shining there seemed real.

  “It appears I have no choice but to believe you,” Chrysanthemumsy told her. She bowed. “Thank you for bringing me word.”

  10

  A RUDE ENCOUNTER, AND NOCTURNAL TERRORS

  “Fetch me my bird, and see to my dinner,” said the thin voice from the darkness.

  It was the figure in pajamas, now risen and standing, who issued the orders.

  Begonia climbed to her feet. “Who are you?”

  “That is not your concern,” the person said. “Find my bird, I said, and then bring me something to eat.”

  His voice buzzed like a mosquito in Begonia’s ear. Mentally, she swatted it away. “Key,” she called, “are you all right?”

  “No, I am not all right,” came the irritable voice again. “And my name is not ‘key.’ I’m famished. I’ve been wandering for days and reduced to asking rude persons for food. Asking! I said, bring me some—”

  “Not you,” said Begonia. “Key.”

  “I don’t care a fig if you’ve lost your key,”
said the voice. “Fetch my bird and a bite to eat!”

  Begonia’s patience was wearing thin. “Not my Key,” she said, “and not my key.”

  The owner of the strange voice sniffed. “You’re raving mad.”

  “Key?” she cried. “Key?” She groped through the dark brambles in the direction she thought he’d gone, until finally she trod on something that wasn’t ground.

  “Oof!”

  She grinned. Key, she considered, was probably not grinning.

  “Eee-yah!” yelped the strange voice. The short, pajama-clad blur in the darkness clambered up a tree trunk. “Wh-who’s there?”

  “There you are.” Begonia took Key’s outstretched hand. “Why didn’t you answer me?”

  “What? Where am I?”

  It was Key’s voice, but it didn’t sound like him. Begonia pulled him to a standing position. “Did you hit your head? Are you hurt?”

  Key wobbled on his feet. “That thing,” he moaned. “That monster … it struck me with its ferocious claws and sent me flying! It flung me across the forest!”

  “Well, sort of,” she said. “What’s your name?”

  “Key,” he answered. “Don’t you know me?”

  “You know this intruder?” demanded the panicked voice of the stranger. “Drop your weapons! State your purpose!”

  “Key has no weapons,” Begonia told the voice. “Nor any purpose.”

  “Thanks a lot,” muttered Key.

  She ignored it. “Now, Key, what’s my name?”

  “Your names are completely unimportant!” shrilled the pajama-clad stranger from up in the tree. “Fetch me my ostrich and my supper!”

  “Oh, is there supper?” asked Key.

  “No.”

  “Oh. What’s an ostrich? Is it supper?”

  “The monster that knocked us over, I think,” said Begonia. “Some sort of giant bird. I’ve heard of them, once, in a story. But what is my name?”

  “This is terrible!” cried Key. “Has the monster made you forget your name?”

  Begonia resisted the urge to grab him by his ears.