Golden Bird, Red Fox: Chapter seven

Braxton could think of only one thing once he realized he was stuck. Randall had offered to not call him a wuss, even if he bailed and left his brother in this inn. It might have been a good idea to accept that.

Of course, there wasn’t exactly anything Braxton could do now. No way could he take on a mob of this size, and he wasn’t sure if the windows could be broken for a hasty, yet dangerous escape. Gulping, Braxton raised both hands in surrender and let his mouth run.

“I’m sorry, good folks, but I just decided that this place is far too fancy for my tastes. You know, some rich people prefer pretending to be poor! But I guess my clothes don’t really reflect that, hmm?”

The crowd continued its advance, slowly forming a semicircle that Braxton could never break through. He had blown his chance to try the windows. How stupid. “Look here. I know you want me to have fun with you all, but I’m not tolerant of alcohol, and I just know you will want me to drink some. Besides, there will always be another patron soon enough, right?”

That was not the right thing to say, because the moment the words left his mouth, the front door flew open, shoving Braxton into the writhing crowd. They clawed at his suit, giving no mercy. A few punches and slaps bruised his face, and he was fairly sure someone went so far as to bite him. Then, as the smell of spiced pork pie overpowered his senses, Braxton felt something massive crash into his skull. He dropped to his knees, feeling a second blow to his gut before falling into the sickly warm arms of the mob. Braxton fell limp, and lost consciousness.

When he awoke, Braxton nearly cried. Thick grass blanketed the ground beneath him, and the stars twinkled serenely in the black sky. It was so good to be alive!

“Whoa, Prince,” said a scratchy voice, “you can’t go crying tears of joy yet. Look at yourself!”

He did just that, examining his hands carefully in the low light. “I don’t understand,” he mumbled, “what am I supposed to see?”

Suddenly, he felt the strangest jolt he’d ever had. It was as though someone had reached into his chest and nudged his heart a little. Maybe that was what Gordon felt when he met Lady Avondale for the first time.

“My god, you’re turning pink!” scolded the scratchy voice. It was Randall, of course. Braxton turned to the voice and wrapped his arms around his faithful friend, but stopped short, finally understanding what had happened.

“Am I,” he stammered, “a wandering soul?”

Randall nodded, his lips curling to reveal sharp canines. “Yes, you idiot. What did I tell you? Don’t eat or drink anything! And look what happened!”

Glancing around at the woods that surrounded this grassy clearing, Braxton tried to remember whether or not he ate anything. He had not. Did he drink? No, of course not. “But I didn’t. I followed your instructions. I was about to leave and ask you if you might sniff the area to see if Gordon had left while you came for me, but then…”

The fox did not look impressed. He motioned clumsily with his paw for Braxton to continue.

“I tried to leave and then… I was beaten. I think. It’s all so fuzzy. Some little girl grabbed onto me and then everyone started gathering around me and I for some reason stumbled forward and then… nothing after that.”

After muttering a curse word under his breath, Randall, rustled the grass angrily with his tail. “Well since you’re a ghost now, and not completely useful for finding the lost Tradors, I say we go visit them and explain. I think the flowery people will understand. Then they can ask someone else for help sooner.”

“That sounds good. Can we still travel the way we did earlier?”

“I think so. You’ll just have to concentrate harder on grabbing my tail. I think. Come to think, why is it that I can see you? I bet it’s because you happened to reappear inside this fairy ring. Come on, let’s go.” Randall jumped to his feet, waving his tail like a cat’s toy feather.

Willing himself to be at least partially tangible, Braxton took hold of Randall’s tail. He pondered the strange feeling of someone touching his very soul, nearly letting the fox’s fur slip through his hands as they raced back over the patchwork landscape. Now, rather than bright greens and browns, Braxton could only see the dull colors of night, and the rare twinkle of town lights.

Randall crashed to a stop right behind the thick trunk of a pine tree. Just beyond, Braxton could see fields of muted color, all blooms which had closed their petals for the night. Cloudless and cool, the Trador gardens felt just as serene that evening as they did in the day.

“Here we are,” Randall said, clearing away a patch of pine needles from the ground. “You can go haunt them or something and then we’ll find your brother tomorrow morning. I’m going to sleep.”

“Aren’t you coming?” Braxton asked.

Curling his tail around his body, Randall snorted. “Nu-uh. If I go on the property, it’s all over. Now go already.” He buried his face in his fur and flattened his ears. Braxton was not going to get more out of him.

Since Randall wasn’t going to budge, Braxton turned back to the Trador estate. But the moment his ghostly figure crossed into the flower field, he felt the odd sensation that something pulled at his essence. Worried that some enchantment might drag his soul back to the inn, Braxton quickened. He passed through the tulips, not nudging even one of them. Eventually, he reached the mansion. It looked as perfect as it had last time, the roses winding up and down pure white trellises. Braxton concentrated on making himself as intangible as possible before stepping through a white double door.

He emerged into a hallway with white-washed walls and a rose marble floor. Tables stood at regular intervals on either side of the hall, vases with rare orchids and particularly brilliant flower specimens atop them. Braxton strolled until he reached the first set of branch halls and turned right, hoping he would have enough time to find the Tradors.

Only a small study and the kitchens and servants’ quarters awaited him down that first hall. On the left was the parlor and two larger, more elaborate studies. It took three more tries before Braxton found the master bedroom. He first walked into what must have been Randall’s room. By the window, the Trador heir had a large table covered in diagrams. A stray pen and bottle of ink lay in the middle, and Braxton knew exactly how he’d tell the Tradors. He wouldn’t even have to wake them.

Forcing himself to be solid, Braxton opened the ink and dipped the pen in. He wrote his message, explaining how he’d turned into a spirit, before returning everything to its original place. He tore off his message and accidentally ripped the corner from a complicated mandala before hurrying to find the master bedroom.

The second room Braxton entered also seemed to be Randall’s room. Wooden soldiers lay dead or wounded all over the floor. On the windowsill sat a line of potted plants, and the desk was covered by an open botany book. He had not heard of a third child, and the bed was empty, so which room was which?

Realizing that he’d been snooping too long, Braxton chided himself and slipped back into the hallway. The next room, luckily, was the master bedroom. After a quick peek to make sure- he couldn’t just walk in on them sleeping -Braxton slipped the note under the door and scurried out of the mansion.

It was morning by the time he met with Randall again. The fox sat straight at attention, waving his tail irritably until Braxton finally crashed into the pines.

“Slow,” Randall accused. “You are impossibly slow.”

“Yes, I know. Now why don’t you eat something before we find Ferrell? He’ll sleep until noon since neither I nor Gordon is there for him to annoy.”

Though probably skeptical, Randall did as was suggested, leaving Braxton to stand idly by the pine tree. The Prince used the solitude to mutter about all the ridiculous things happening around him. He wondered why Randall had to take him and his brother to that inn, and why Randall couldn’t go on the Trador property. By the time the fox returned, blood dotting his white cheeks, bright light filtered through the pine trees, and Braxton had not reached any firm conclusions.

“Ground looks like fawn’s fur, doesn’t it?” Randall asked, licking his lips. “Boy would I like to eat a fawn. Or a whole deer.”

“Glutton,” Braxton muttered, grabbing hold of the fox’s tail. The usual shiver ran through him as Randall counted to three and took off.