Page 23 of The Hocus Pocus Handbook

“Do you know everyone in the wildlands?” Kerboros asks in a mild tone.

Mild for him.

“Mostly.” I’m not being facetious.

I wonder if he’ll inquire about my plans again. I’d rather not have to make up something to satisfy him, though I doubt he’s asking from his own curiosity. The Lord and Lady of Winter will be demanding updates.

Instead, he gestures, indicating we should get moving now that the path is clear.

The weather is perfect, no mischief sending storms in our direction. If I know Da, he’s got the wood folk casting charms for fair winds and bright skies to ease our path. I aim a burst of brightness in Mudge’s direction as I head for the pookas’ favorite grazing spot.

Kerboros is quiet, bordering on morose. He doesn’t look at me, but he isn’t admiring the scenery either. It makes me sad, how little savor he seems to find in life. I’ve heard only a snippet of his story from Erdene, but I can’t fathom how alone he must feel. The irritation I used to experience in his company is slowly easing into empathy. After all, I know what’s it like to feel alone at court, and Kerboros can’t even take refuge with the wild fae.

I push onward, past the tangle of thorny brambles and feathery foliage. The wildlands offer so many shades of green: moss and myrtle, pine and phthalo, so deep it’s nearly black. Ahead, the trees thin, yielding to a grassy meadow, and the green deepens to gold. Wildflowers grow amid the waving fronds, while honeybees drift from bloom to bloom, tasting the nectar. The breeze is warm and tinged with the scent of mint and clover.

As expected, I find a few pookas grazing on the sweetest grass anywhere in the wildlands. Including Ferghus, who owes me a favor. I don’t enjoy keeping score on kindness, but we need a ride to Macha’s hut. I bow even deeper to the pooka king than I did to the Lord of Winter. Hopefully, Kerboros won’t share that in his report.

“I could use your assistance,” I say.

It would be gauche to speak of debts. I have their attention now, and Ferghus touches his thoughts to mine. I greeted him verbally so as not to presume on our connection, but his silent response assures me that I’m still in his good graces.

What would you have of me?

A ride to Macha’s domain, or as near as you feel comfortable.

The swamp witch can be…sensitive. To say the least. And many wild fae prefer to avoid her territory entirely.

Easily done. Do you need us to rid you of your burden? It would be easy.

I collect he means to get Kerboros lost, not to bury him in a bog, but with pookas it’s tough to say. They’re intense beings with passion to spare. They run for joy, and they hold grudges against those who curtail their fun.

Pookas also have…interesting ideas as to what could be considered entertainment.

He can stay, I send back.

As an extension of our regard for you, so long as he does not provoke us.

I turn to Kerboros, who has watched our silent communication with a faint frown. I speak quickly. “They’ll take us to Macha’s place. Please don’t give them any trouble, just ride quietly.”

“You make me sound like an agent of chaos,” he snaps.

We both know that’s me, I say to Ferghus.

The pooka lets out an amused sound and lowers his body for me to mount. It’s more of a struggle for Kerboros since his pooka won’t help, but he manages to swing astride, and then we’re off, racing through the wildlands at breakneck speed.

I mind-sing to Ferghus, more curious than anything else: Do you know anything of the Summerlings who went missing from the Winter Palace?

The wilds are silent, Ferghus sings back.

Hm. That’s unusual.

The Winter lands should be eager to speak of Summer crossings. I don’t know what to make of the fact that Kerboros can’t find the portal that took them, and none of my usual allies have news either. If Macha can’t point us in the right direction, I’ll be out of ideas.

For now, I enjoy the ride and the option not to talk with Kerboros. His pooka isn’t making it easy for him to stay on its back, but the Winter hound clings with stubborn determination that I can’t help but find admirable.

The forest flies by in a blur, and I breathe in the freshness of the green air. Pooka speed is tremendous, however, so we don’t ride long before the terrain shifts, yielding to the springy ground that heralds the start of the bog. From there it will grow wetter still, until the plants grow dark and twisted, guided by Macha’s hand. Not because she’s a bad person but because she wants the region to look unprepossessing. It discourages visitors. The swamp stretches as far as the eye can see. Technically, Macha exists at the edge of Winter’s borders, but her domain touches all four territories, making her swamp the center of everything.

Stagnant pools fill with the scent of decay—wet earth, rotting vegetation, and a coppery tang it’s best not to contemplate. Gnarled trees jut from the ground, draped in curtains of moss and parasitic vines. Ferghus trots to a stop when it grows difficult for the pookas to maneuver, and I slide off.