When Lola awoke, Venice was already prepared to leave. Their supplies were packed, and the bundles carried by the three of them were ready to be re-equipped. Aurora greeted them downstairs in the pub, carrying a pack of her own in addition to her lute. She was more than eager to depart.

After Mr. Song gave a fond farewell to his daughter, they exited the pub, heading north out of town. Having gone over their map, Venice explained that the northern route led to Hashvale, and then Curriborough, before reaching the northern cap of the country. As they continued down the road, the trio explained the finer details of their story to a curious Aurora Song.

They disclosed not only the circumstances that led them to lose their home, the High Spirits’ appearance to Lola, or how Rook was the only fowl saved from their cottage’s coop, but also their visit to Grandmother. They recounted the images of the old sage’s study and her experiments with pyrepie feathers. Likewise, they discussed how the old woman’s temporary speech spell was made permanent through the charmed pins affixed to Lola’s collar.

Aurora drank in the information thirstily. By the time they summed up their tale to the point where they’d arrived in Bleuetshire, the four of them suddenly realized that they’d walked a great distance. Without a sun, a moon, or a sky of stars it was difficult to tell, yet they knew it had grown late … that much was apparent simply by the ache in their feet.

Venice had begun to openly distress over their locale, since their next checkpoint, Hashvale, was not even vaguely in sight. They agreed to make camp alongside the road, in spite of his adamancy to carry on. Aurora made use of some old canvas in her bag and a few sturdy branches to build a small canopy for them to sleep under. Venice, after laying out several blankets for them to sleep on, went about gathering light for several empty fairy-fire lanterns he’d brought with him.

Lola, Aurora, and Rook sat in respite inside the crude tent while watching the carpenter obsessively trying to lure in and capture wayward will-o-wisps to fill the lanterns. In a short time, he’d managed to lure in several and trap them inside his stock of lanterns.

“How many does that make?” Lola asked, still observing.

Venice’s eyes scanned the darkness, hoping to catch sight of another one of the wayward balls of light. “The last one I caught makes about nine,” he replied. “Ah! I see another one!”

He began whistling, as he’d done on every occasion before to lure in previous fairy-fires.

“Nine is more than enough,” Lola said, interrupting him. “And do you have to whistle every time? High-pitched noises don’t exactly sound that great when you have acute hearing.”

“You’d rather I’d chase them down?” he asked in response.

“I’d rather you stop trying to trap more of them and take a chance to rest!” she replied. “I’m sure everyone here agrees nine is enough.”

The young woman and rooster nodded. “You’re not afraid of the dark, are you?” Aurora teased.

Venice turned to face them. “The dark? No. It’s the Bogba’el that I’m afraid of,” he stated, angrily.

“The Bogieman?” Aurora retorted. “Don’t tell me that old wives’ tale stuck with you from childhood. My father used to tell me it was going to get me if I didn’t behave.”

Crossing his arms, the carpenter glared. “The Bogba’el is not a myth!”

“I was just teasing ...” Aurora murmured, crestfallen.

“His best ‘friend’ was consumed by the Bogba’el when he was twelve,” Lola commented. “It’s a bit of a sore spot.”

“Lola!” Venice scolded.

“What? You told me. I didn’t think you’d have an issue with discussing it,” the Buhund replied defensively.

He made his way over to the tent. “When I told you about that, I assumed you wouldn’t ever be able to talk.”

“So, the Bogba’el is real?” Aurora asked, hoping to interrupt the start of another fight.

“As real as me, you, or the High Spirits.” Venice took a seat within the tent, attempting not to disturb the branches holding it up. “And they’ll drag you into the shadows in a heartbeat.”

Aurora’s expression filled with fear. “Do they look anything like what people say they do?”

“It’s difficult to say,” Rook chimed in. “They’re basically living shadows. They can have as many eyes or mouths as they want. They can have feet and legs, or they can slither across the ground like flowing water.”

Both Lola and Venice’s eyes shot over to the rooster. “Um, Rook, how would you know?” the dog asked.

“I happened to have a life before I ever ended up in that coop of yours!” the cockerel replied. “For all you know, I came from the other end of the continent!”

“So, you’ve encountered the Bogba’el before?” Venice inquired.

“One dark night in the years before the sky was emptied,” Rook stated. “My late wife and I barely got away from it alive.”

Venice started counting on his fingers, puzzled by the rooster’s claim. Lola, likewise, tilted her head in confusion. “You were married?” the dog exclaimed before looking to the carpenter. “Venice, do chickens get married?”

“Chickens are perfectly capable of getting married, if that’s what you’re asking,” Rook huffed.

“That would’ve been well over fifteen years ago,” Venice stated. “You must be pretty old for a rooster.”

“Last I recalled, chickens—hen and rooster alike—lived almost shorter lives than dogs,” Aurora pondered out loud.

The fowl’s feathers ruffled back, flustered by their comments. “I happen to be fifty years old, thank you very much,” he said with offense.

The other three sat silent for a moment.

“How is that even possible?” Lola asked.

The rooster took a long, annoyed sigh at the question. “My grandfather was the Raven. He happened to fall in love with a Bantam Hen, who was my grandmother.”

“Your granddad was a raven?” the dog asked, hoping for clarification.

“Not a raven, the Raven,” Rook corrected. “The legendary trickster, the spirit of freedom … call him what you will. He fell in love with my grandmother, a Bantam Hen, and had one chick. That was my mother.”

“Did she look more like a raven or a chicken?” Lola prodded.

“Why is that important?” the rooster protested.

“You’re the one telling a story here. Help me complete my mental image!” the Buhund countered.

Rook fumed quietly for a moment, before returning to his story. “Due to the magic nature of the Raven, my mother looked like any other hen. Although her feathers were black,” he stated, hoping to remedy the dog’s lack of a mental picture. “Because she was the Raven’s daughter, she was granted an unnaturally long lifespan. She outlived the farm she was born on by far, for example. After that, she found her way to another farm where she met my father, a Cochin Rooster.”

“So, that’s why you’re able to live so long?” Aurora asked.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Rook elaborated. “It’s also why I happened to outlive my wife. She was only a regular hen, so she did not have my lifespan.”

“Do you still talk to your mother?” Venice asked.

“My mother is dead,” Rook said, bluntly and unconcerned.

“Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” the carpenter replied, apologetically.

“It’s not a big deal. She inherited my grandfather’s prank-loving nature, and it was her undoing,” the rooster continued. “One day, she decided to place a cow pie in the farmer’s hand while he was sleeping, then tickled his face with her wing, so that he’d unintentionally smash it into his face. He wasn’t happy when he woke up, and she wasn’t quick enough to flee. Needless to say, she ended up being dinner that night. He cooked her with potatoes and rosemary, if I remember correctly.”

“You seem incredibly unfazed by this whole subject,” Venice commented, feeling uncomfortable with the fowl’s attitude.

“Mother and I did not get along. We weren’t close,” the rooster replied.

The sound of a troop of soldiers marching along interrupted their conversation. All four of them peeked out from the tent to see the Young Earl’s coach being pulled along. Despite the large number of lanterns placed around their campsite, the troop hadn’t taken notice of them.

“I guess the Earl hasn’t ever heard of horses?” Aurora commented.

“It’s not like there are many of them left, what with the lack of crops,” Venice said.

“Why are they heading to Hashvale?” Aurora asked.

“They probably have more people to exploit,” Lola replied. “I’m guessing they finished up with the poor souls in Bleuetshire, so they’re heading to another town.”

“What a shame that more innocent people will have to deal with that bloated toad of an Earl,” Rook quipped.

The coach passed by, leaving them unnoticed as it faded into the horizon. They all slumped back in relief when it departed.

“I don’t know about the rest of you, but I think that was enough excitement for me for tonight.” Aurora gave a weary sigh. “Perhaps we should get some sleep so we can continue our trek early in the morning?”

“As vague an idea as ‘morning’ is, I’d agree,” Venice replied. “Let’s get some rest.”

Aurora and Venice went about bundling themselves under the blankets they’d brought, while Rook roosted atop one of the supply packs. Meanwhile, Lola circled around the center of the tent, unable to settle down.

“Insomnia?” the carpenter asked her.

“I can’t settle down here. It just doesn’t feel right,” she said, still circling around uncomfortably.

“Perhaps,” Venice reached into a nearby pack and retrieved a small red blanket with purple mandalas, “you’d sleep better with this.”

Lola’s eyes went wide and she rushed up to the blanket in his hand, sniffing it intently. “My favorite blanket from the cottage? Why did you bring it along?”

“I had a feeling you might need it,” he explained.

Taking the blanket in her mouth, she pried it from Venice’s grip. Wearily, she trotted away with the blanket in her jaws, and set it down a few feet from Venice. With a thud, she slumped down into the blanket. The dog took a deep inhale of the night air as she nuzzled into the bedding. “Thank you, Venice,” she muttered.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, reclining.

They lay in silence for a few moments, drifting off to sleep.

“Lola, why did you really destroy my copy of Trimbelle’s Glossary?” Venice asked, slipping into sleep.

“It upset me.”

“Why?” he persisted.

“It upset me because it said that dogs existed only to work under humans, and that … we didn’t have souls …” she said weakly, drifting off to sleep.

###

In her slumber, she dreamt of a town where the skies were not dark, and where plants grew with little struggle. The people there showed no signs of the spiritual erosion that was so common across the waking world. As she casually trotted through the streets of the burg, a peculiar young man stopped her. In meeting him, she realized he was not unlike Venice. A familiar warmth flickered in his dark, brown eyes. At the same time, he was not like Venice—his hair grew wavy and silken black, unlike Venice’s messy reddish-auburn mane. Likewise, his skin much darker, counter to Venice’s pale complexion. Yet, there was a sense of familiarity as he spoke to her.

His words were kind, and gentle. Often, he’d reply to her comments with a hearty and glowing laugh as they walked together through the town. With no hesitation, she told him of what had happened to her and her friends, and of their journey. The man listened intently as she spoke, and offered words of encouragement when her story ended. It was then that they came to the edge of the town, and he looked down at her. The words they’d spoken to each other had been so sincere, yet so vague, that she could not remember word for word what they’d said. However, the final words they spoke became as clear as the waking. He turned to her, locking his gaze with hers. “I’m very grateful that he has you with him,” the man said. “Take care of him.”

Lola was puzzled by his words. “Take care of who?”

The town and the people around her began to blur and fade. “You’re waking up,” he said.

She attempted to focus on him, which caused the fading to cease slightly. “You never told me your name. Who are you?”

He smiled. “My name is T—”

###

She shot up as Venice nudged her awake. “Wake up, Princess Buhund,” he said with some frustration. “We’ve got to get going.”

The dog looked at him, still groggy, and proceeded to shake out her ears. “It’s morning already?”

“Technically, I suppose,” Venice replied. “We’ve packed up most everything. Aurora has some dried yam for us to eat before we leave.”

The carpenter stowed away her blanket as she got to her feet. Both Aurora and Rook were seated in clear view, likely waiting for her to awaken so they could depart. Venice carefully went about re-equipping her dog-sized pack to her back, handing her a strip of dried yam as he did. It tasted foul and starchy.

“How far are we from Hashvale?” she asked, the pungent flavor of expired yam still lingering in her mouth.

“We shouldn’t be far,” Rook replied. “After all, we did walk a great distance yesterday.”

“I recall you perching on Lola’s back more than walking, actually,” Aurora pointed out.

“Well, we still covered a lot of ground. Excuse my phrasing,” the rooster said. “Either way, we shouldn’t be more than a few clicks from Hashvale.”

Picking up Rook, Venice perched him atop his shoulder and grabbed a nearby lantern. “Well, then enough semantics. Let’s get going.”

They departed and continued walking north. Within less than an hour, they’d reached the outskirts of Hashvale. Although larger than Hollyton or Bleuetshire, it showed the same signs of disrepair. The lanterns were lit, and produced an all-too-familiar glow, yet the town itself seemed empty. The scent of turf-fires—which would be common from morning, mid-day, and the early evening—was absent from the air drifting through the town. There was not a single soul outside, or inside the buildings of Hashvale. They continued wandering the streets in search of a sign of some life.

“This can’t be right. Where is everyone?” Venice asked out loud.

“Vacation time?” Lola replied jokingly.

“To where? To Costa along the southern vale to let themselves soak in the lack of sunlight, and swim in the freezing waters?” the carpenter replied, unenthusiastically. “I’m going to check the map and see how far the next town is. We can’t stay here if a pub isn’t willing to give us a room for the night.”

Someone cackled obnoxiously nearby as Venice pulled out his map of Prithvi. The entire group’s gaze was drawn to an old man sitting on the porch of a decrepit old home. His face looked withered and pale, his eyes wide and glassy. Despite his wide and demented grin, there wasn’t a single tooth in his mouth. “Theys called meh selfish, but look who wons out in the end!” he said with a cackle. “You folks lookin’ fer de rest of da townfolken?”

“Actually, we were,” Aurora replied, her discomfort with the man’s appearance made obvious by her face.

“Well, thems folks done got t’rown out har fer refusin’ t’ pay da Queen’s new tax. I’s managed t’ pay her son off, havin’ saved up enough gold t’.” The creepy old man let out yet another disturbing laugh. “Dem sold’ers tooks ’em t’ de fields outsides da town. Dey’s Bogba’el chow now.”

“I don’t suppose you’d let us pay you to put us up for the night, would you?” Venice asked, with much reluctance.

“I’s ain’t runnin’ no hotels har, boy. Why d’ntcha go spends yer night out with all the other Boogieman foods?” the geezer replied, letting out yet another cackle.

“Let’s go. The laughing corpse isn’t going to help us,” Lola said, turning to leave.

The old man stopped and stuttered, “Wh-whasat? Dat dere dog dun jus’ tawked!”

The group had already begun to depart as he started a ruckus. Rook turned back to him. “This is all a hallucination, old man,” he reassured him. “You ate some bad yams. That’s all.”

The dog and the rooster shared a snicker as they walked away. “Give it a rest, you two,” Venice said. “You’re lucky he’s too ancient for anyone to believe him.”

They stopped a block away from the old man’s house, giving Venice time to examine the map. He carefully perused the extensive country map, looking to a compass in his hand, while Rook held a lantern over his shoulder. “Since it appears we won’t be staying here tonight, I’m guessing we should continue going north and see if we can make it to Curriborough,” he said. “Although we’d need to be careful if we end up camping out again. The road north runs adjacent to the Nightmare Forest.”

“I’m guessing the name’s a good indication why?” Lola asked.

“From what Grandmother told me, it’s basically a pocket of darkness where people haven’t had the chance to set up lights,” he replied. “So, I’m betting it’s a great place to get attacked by the Bogba’el.”

“All right, so we stay clear of it,” the Buhund replied. “No big deal.”

“I just hope we make it to Curriborough before needing to rest again,” Aurora commented.

Rook sounded off a series of unintelligible sounds, the lantern still hanging from his mouth. Venice quickly folded the map and plucked the light source from the rooster’s beak. “Try again.”

“I was trying to say, that’s going to be difficult,” the chicken said. “The distance between Curriborough and Hashvale is even greater than the distance between Hashvale and Bleuetshire.”

“Way to be a downer, Rook,” Lola quipped.

“Well, we could still try for it,” he said defensively.

They all murmured in agreement, although lacking in enthusiasm.

“I don’t suppose squatting in one of these empty homes would be an option?” Lola asked.

“Not if you’re okay with the Royal Army dragging you off in the middle of the night for trespassing on the Queen’s property,” Venice replied. “We’re just going to have to trek onward.”

The carpenter stuffed the map into the small pouch hanging from his side. Reaching into another compartment of the bag, he retrieved several orange-brown sticks. “In the meantime … Dried yam, anyone?”

“I think I speak for everyone here when I say ‘We’ll pass’,” Lola responded.

“You’re making a mountain out of a mole hill,” he retorted. “This stuff doesn’t taste half as bad as marmot meat.”

“Marmot meat that’s been sitting in a dark pit for three weeks tastes better than that,” the Buhund remarked, annoyed at his insistence.

They began walking toward the northern end of town.

“I’m actually surprised you’re still eating those, Venice,” Aurora said as they all strode down the street.

“Why?” he asked, his mouth full of the despised dried yam.

“Well, it’s just that …” Aurora trailed off. “Maybe I shouldn’t.”

“What? What is it?” Lola prodded.

The lutenist snickered to herself as they continued walking. “It’s just that the yams that was made from are actually older than me.”

Venice turned and spat a large orange wad of goop onto a nearby alley wall. “Dear Amah, where’s my canteen?” His face flame-red, he struggled through his bag to find his container of fresh water.

Everyone else erupted in laughter at his expense. “Stop laughing. You all ate it at one point, too,” he yelled angrily, water dribbling down his chin-hair.

“Yes, but the taste is long gone from our mouths,” Lola replied with a laugh.

“I’m guessing we’ll have to find something else to eat now …” He took another long gulp from his canteen.

“Didn’t we pack some other dried foods?” Rook interjected.

Venice rummaged around in the pouch. “None in here.”

“I watched Grandmother shove several bags of dried mushrooms and cabbage turnips into your backpack before we left. We’ll be fine.” Lola attempted to put their minds at ease. “Why we didn’t eat those in the first place is beyond me.”

They continued walking, as Rook fiddled around in Venice’s backpack, his head hidden inside the bag’s reaches. “I found them!” he called out in a muffled voice. “Anyone hungry?”

“Save them for later. We’ve got walking to do.” Venice pulled the rooster out of the small opening in the top of his backpack.

Lola could see the northern road out of the town ahead of them, the path dimly lit by a line of primitive street lamps.

“Well, here’s to our brief stay in Hashvale,” Aurora remarked as they passed a crude sign that said ‘You are now leaving HASHVALE’.

“Let’s hope the next town is more hospitable,” Lola grumbled.

However, she sincerely doubted the next town would be free of the royal family’s clutches … or any of the towns along the northern route to the Royale Palace for that matter. Mid-step, the image of the town from her dream echoed through her head, and she briefly wondered if she’d ever see something so vibrant outside of her dreams within her short life. She shook off the thought, reminding herself that she never indulged in such ridiculous fantasies. What Grandmother had sent them to seek wasn’t a guarantee, after all.

A flock of pyrepies could be seen circling to the distant west of the road. She stopped and watched them for a moment, wondering what they were circling over. A hand nudging her back brought her back to reality. The Buhund looked up to see the rest of her group standing behind her, Venice standing over her. “Come on. Let’s keep moving,” he said gently.

“Yeah, sorry,” Lola replied, turning back toward the northern road.

The fading squawks of the verminous firebirds could be heard even faintly as they continued along. She really wished they’d shut up.

Next Chapter: (Book 1) Chapter 05 - The Nightmare Forest