Willow by Wayland Drew Page A

muscle. He burned all over from arrow wounds. His head throbbed as if he’d been hammered with hardwood mallets. Cautiously, he opened his eyes.
    The brownie that had been riding the eagle now crouched on his chest, prodding his nose with a tiny spear.
    “Ow! Stop that!”
    Cheering and chattering, the swarm of brownies no more than nine inches tall appeared out of nowhere and jabbed him in the toes and fingers. Crisscrossing ropes bound Willow securely to the ground, and he could turn his head only enough to see Meegosh lying beside him, moaning that his arm was broken.
    “Oh, Willow,” Meegosh groaned. “We’re doomed! You know what brownies do! They pluck out your eyes! They cut off strips of you and cook them!”
    “Right!” exclaimed Franjean, prancing on Willow’s chest. “And that’s just the beginning. After that we’ll . . .”
    “Where’s the baby?”
    “Quiet!” Franjean slapped Willow’s nose. “I’m speaking! I! King of the World!”
    The other brownies jeered. “Hear that? King of the World! Gets one eagle ride, and it goes to his head!”
    “Silence! Respect!” Leaping up and down in a sudden frenzy, Franjean poked Willow’s nose until finally Willow sneezed violently and blew him backward, head over heels. He ended up sitting dazed on Willow’s belly. “Wretched Peck! I’ll . . .”
    Suddenly the glade lit up with eerie luminescence, sparkling and darting. It flowed off the undersides of the trees and showered back on Willow where he lay. It felt like healing rain.
    “Behave yourself, Franjean!” The voice that spoke was wind-soft yet clear. Like silver. Like ice.
    “Yes, Your Majesty!”
    “What a miserable brownie you are! I ask you to bring the two Nelwyns to me, our guests, and what do you do? Hurl them into a pit! Strike them and abuse them! Tie them up!”
    The other brownies shrank back, bumping into one another. “King of the World, huh, Franjean?” they whispered. “Kings aren’t supposed to be frightened, Franjean. They’re not supposed to tremble and shake!”
    One of them shuffled over beside Willow’s ear, a slack-jawed and big-eared simpleton of a brownie. “Know who that is? That’s Cherlindrea! Franjean’s in trouble, now. We’re all in trouble. Your fault!”
    “Who . . . who’s Cherlindrea?”
    But the brownie had no chance to answer before the radiant cloud surrounded him. Willow saw to his astonishment that it was composed of fairies, hundreds of fairies, each smaller than the smallest butterfly. Their laughter rang like tiny chimes. When they circled his head their touch soothed like spring water and his headache vanished. When they surrounded his body, the brownie ropes fell away. The arrow wounds ceased stinging, and the throbbing in his joints and muscles vanished.
    Willow sat up. He stood.
    Meegosh rose too, more slowly.
    “You all right?”
    Meegosh nodded, frowning at his arm, which had been miraculously trussed up in splints and a sling.
    “Bring the Nelwyns to me,” Cherlindrea said, her voice like crystal wind. Willow and Meegosh felt the gentle pressure of hundreds of tiny fairy hands. The brownie circle opened before them and they were led to the edge of the glade, where the radiance was so bright they had to cover their eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry,” Cherlindrea said. The light dimmed. “Is that better?” It dimmed more, still more, until they could open their eyes again.
    Cherlindrea, queen of the fairies, hovered above them. Willow gasped, she was so beautiful. The fairies of his imagination had all been old —wizened and sharp-nosed crones. In the tales his mother told, they were pests and busybodies, forever making life harder for Nelwyns, forever stealing and casting irksome charms on crops and livestock. But Cherlindrea was young. Her tiny body was graceful and perfectly proportioned, and her radiance emanated not from it alone—and from her wings, and from her flaxen hair—but also from a gentle smile.
    Near her laughing on