Ward of the White Worm

An hour of silence had passed before anyone spoke in the carriage, something that any adult stuck within a vehicle dearly wished for but rarely received. But Olli, unable to read another story about a child being visited by the Charcoal Angel or being gnashed in the teeth of the Black-Toothed Cat, opened her mouth to talk. “Why is Mister Burke a dog!” She yelled more than asked, startling Theodore who had been quite peacefully dozing against the window, where no jostling of the carriage nor rickety wheel clatter seemed to stir him.

But the yelling had.

He opened his eyes and set his mouth into a frown, sitting up on the seat. “What was that?”

“Why is he a dog?”

“Who?”

“Mister Burke!”

“He’s a grim, I have already told you that, haven’t I?”

Olli shook her head. “No.”

“Well, what have I told you?” Theodore asked.

“No elbows on table, don’t chew with my mouth open.”

Theodore put a finger on his chin and looked up thoughtfully. Then after a long moment he muttered, “you may be right…”

“I am! What’s a grim!?”

“Do not be so loud,” Theodore scolded. “Young ladies should not raise their voices unless in danger or struggling to be heard.”

“You aren’t very loud, are you a lady?” Olli mumbled, so quietly that Theodore did not seem to hear her since he finally decided to give her an explanation.

“Mister Burke was the son of a miller,” Theodore was slow with his words in the same way someone who is being forced to speak on a subject best left to rest would be. “He lived in Watshire as a child. One day he left the village walls, he never told me why, and went off the allotted paths. The Neighbors found him. They gave him back twenty years later, and had turned him into a grim. Grims are bad omens, and his parents were long dead, so he came to us.”

“Why?” Olli asked.

“Why what?”

“Why did the Neighbors do that?” She elaborated on, before adding, “what are they anyway? I didn’t see any houses when we left.”

“The Neighbors is just a polite term, we also call them the Goodly Ones and the Pleasant Folk,” Theodore said as he folded his long fingers together and set his hand in his lap. “They are beings higher than godlings, but lesser than the Distant Gods. They live Between but find their way through to here easily enough. They can be held by rules however, and they never harm godlings.”

Olli absorbed all this information as efficiently as a rock does water. “What’s a godling?”

“Another question?” Theodore’s exasperation was audible, “must you have so many right now?”

“Yes,” Olli replied gormlessly.

“A godling is a-”

“Sir! The road!” One footman’s face appeared in the window, the dwindling light casting parts of it in deep shadows. “The road’s gone all… it’s all twisty!”

“Ah,” Theodore sat up straight, “I will be going out then.” The carriage came to a sudden stop, jerking Theodore back against his seat and throwing Olli off of hers and into Theodore’s arms. He quickly placed her back on her own seat. “Now stay here, do not follow me out or even open the door.” He sternly ordered, before opening the carriage door and climbing out, shutting it loudly and firmly behind him.

The footmen had gotten off their posts and each held a six-shot revolver in hands that were more or less stable enough. The carriage driver patiently sat with a long Ableson rifle in his lap, his thumb rubbing at the wooden stock. Mister Burke paced around the carriage in a slow circle, his head held low with a deep growl rumbling from toothy jaws.

The road itself had suddenly radiated outwards into over a dozen new smaller roads that had no real destination and yet each appeared slightly different, either with different pebbles or dirt scattered on them or ancient cobblestone, seeming to terminate at the human-figures running towards them.

“What do we do?” Asked one footman.

“If we shoot ‘em, the bullets might not reach ‘em until we see the whites of t’eyes,” another muttered.

“What’s this? What’s this? A grim on the road?” A voice laughed from around the carriage. Burke’s growling increased in pitch, the hard nails on his paws scratching against the road.

Theodore hurried to the otherside where the voice was coming from, finding a young man in the dusty blues of a naval officer, although the cloth was now dulled and very carefully mended. The man had a dashing look to his face, a bit of scruff that seemed carefully maintained. Beside him had come several other men, stepping off their separate paths which vanished behind them.

“And a young lady!” The man laughed. Theodore glanced around himself before realizing the man was referring to him and Olli had not crept out from the meager safety of the carriage. “What are you doing, wearing your husband’s clothing? Have you gone out to see your paramour, hm?”

The grim’s growling increased.

“M’lord! They’re here!” One of the footmen on the other side yelled.

“I am aware,” Theodore answered, raising his voice before directing his attention to the naval outfitted man. “Are you the Welltraveller?”

“Why yes I am,” the man grinned, “you may call me Robert, if you wish, madam.”

“Hello Robert,” Theodore greeted cooly and stiffly. “Let us speak as gentlemen. We are on our way to Paeth, you would not mind letting us go, would you?”

“Of course not!” Robert said with a large smile, then pointing at the carriage. “I just want that, everything in it, the horses, any gold buttons you have, and all of those revolvers, and those are some very nice shoes, so I will take those too!”

“That would be unacceptable at the moment, we need the carriage to get to Paeth you understand.”

“I do, unfortunately I will not be fixing the roads until you give me the carriage. I do apologize for imposing my requirements, but you see I simply must have them.”

Theodore held out his hands in a conciliatory gesture, “oh no, I must keep the carriage. I can certainly give you money if you do want it, but all else must stay.”

Robert looked over at the carriage, his eyes falling on the coat of arms emblazoned on it, with its forlorn casket and the entwining worm upon it and completely missing the little panicked face peering out from the window. “Ah, I know you! You’re the Earl of Brynebourne, aren’t you?”

Theodore did not miss Olli’s face in the window however. “Yes,” Theodore replied. “So you should know I am an honest man.”

“I do not believe I associate honesty with a Worm,” Robert grinned ruefully. “I more associate them to the underside of my boot, if you would excuse me.”

Theodore held his hands so his palms were facing upwards, expansively gesturing to the land around them. “Of course! There is plenty of land to excuse yourself around, Mister Robert. The reason why none have caught you is because neither you nor your followers are anywhere near the moor normally, are you? So long as there is a good road beneath your feet, well travelled, you can make a rapid escape.” His patience had worn thin, and he struggled to keep his arms from trembling.

“Well yes, of course, are you going to lecture me on my own bloodline, Worm?” Robert chuckled. His men also laughed.

“What happens when the road decays, when it is slowly reclaimed by Nature in her rapacious hunger. Where do you run then, Welltraveller?”

Robert’s jovial air vanished. “What are you saying?”

Theodore put a thumb to his lip, speaking softly, “as you said, I am a Worm.” His teeth punctured the flesh of his thumb, and a foul blackish liquid seeped out like that of a long rotted corpse grown corroded by the sludge like blood left within it. The flesh from his hand bulged, twisted, split open to ooze out the foul ichor and reveal slender yellowing bones that taunt rotting tendons tenaciously clung to. Robert and his men drew back in alarm as the ghoulish form stood watching them. The ground under their feet gave way to moss and mold, pitting as though small pockets had collapsed under it, grass poking through the soil. The men with Robert cried in despair, a few even turning around and running away into the moor in blind panic.

“Where do you run?” Hissed the rotting cadaver.