Box of Fables: Island of Fog, #16

By Keith Robinson

What happens when fairy tales and fables come to life?

 

A cabin in an enchanted forest seems like the perfect location for nine shapeshifters to catch up on their school work. But after a traveling salesman sells them a mysterious box that promises to bring their favorite fairy tales to life, it seems nobody bothers to read the small print. The box does indeed bring fairy tales to life – just not as they imagined.

 

Dozens of animals rampage across the lawn, including a giant wolf that threatens to blow their house down. A beanstalk grows as tall as the clouds. An archer known as the huntsman prowls the woods looking for Snow White. And the sinister Red-Legged Scissor-Man is eager to chop off thumbs. The shapeshifters are dragged into the reconstructed stories and must see them through while avoiding the terrible endings...

 

It's impossible to concentrate on classwork when their cabin is under siege!

 

The sixteenth book in the Island of Fog series combines mythical creatures with fairy tales and fables.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Unearthly Tales
• Release date: Mar 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223395096

Keith Robinson

Keith Robinson is a writer of fantasy fiction for middle-grade readers and young adults. His ISLAND OF FOG series has received extremely positive feedback from readers of all ages including Piers Anthony (best-selling author of the Magic of Xanth series) and Writer's Digest. Visit UnearthlyTales.com for more.

Book preview

Prologue

Happy birthday, Rudi.

The girl spun around to find her father standing in the doorway. He didn’t appear to have anything in his hands. Her birthday gift must be in his pocket.

Did you get me a present? she cried, jumping up. A necklace? Oh, is it a necklace?

He chuckled and shook his head. Better than that, I think. It’s in the backyard. Come and see.

Rudi followed him out, blinking in the glare of the early morning sun. Her father always rose at the crack of dawn. While she’d slept, he had milked the cows and done a spot of fishing. The early bird catches the worm, he liked to say.

Glancing around to make sure it was safe, she hurried after her father as he strode around to the rear of the cottage, where it was more private. The fenced-in area meant nobody could spy on her.

I put it under your tree, her father said, patting her on the shoulder when she caught up to him. Your gift is supposed to be indestructible, but we’ll bring it inside later in case it rains. For now, I figured you’d want to play outside.

Rudi was already scanning the base of her favorite tree, which stood in the corner of the backyard. The huge oak’s limbs stretched outward, offering a shaded spot. Hundreds of years old, it was wise and secure, and she considered it hers. Underneath was something new—a large wooden chest with a rounded lid.

It’s in the box? Gasping with excitement, she clutched her dad’s hand. Oh, what is it? What’s in there?

"The gift is the box."

Oh! she said, trying hard to stifle her disappointment. It’s . . . lovely.

He laughed softly. It’s a special box, Rudi. One that will keep you entertained every day.

Rudi knelt by it and reached for the lid. It had a metal clasp that allowed for a padlock, only there wasn’t one, so she gently opened it up and peered inside.

It’s empty.

Yes, I know. I told you—the box itself is the gift. He knelt next to her and spoke softly. Rudi, I know life is difficult for you, because of . . . well, how you look. You’re beautiful in my eyes, but I know you’re teased a lot. And I know you spend a lot of time out here, reading your collection of fairy tales, talking to yourself, using your imagination to make up stories. I came across this box at the market the other day, and I thought it would be perfect for you.

Rudi frowned. I don’t understand.

The old woman I bought it from called it the Box of Fables. Do you know what a fable is?

Her frown deepened. A table beginning with F?

That caused him to laugh hard, and she smiled. He was always so funny when he laughed, with the way his shoulders shook. Oh boy, he said at last. No, a fable is a very short story with a message. Let me demonstrate. Leaning over the open box, he cleared his throat and said loudly, The Tortoise and the Hare.

Seconds later, a bright glow emanated from within, and Rudi gasped. She and her father eased backward as the glow intensified—and then a purple column of light shot upward, swirling gently as if performing a slow-moving dance.

What’s happening? Rudi cried, both scared and excited.

Watch and see.

To her astonishment, figures formed on the grass—a tortoise and a hare, both translucent and ghostly, but highly defined. The hare seemed to be standing there laughing at the tortoise. Rudi could hardly believe her eyes and ears. She’d never known a hare to show a human expression before, and she definitely hadn’t heard one laugh.

Rudi nearly toppled over backwards when the hare spoke. "You’re so slow, Tortoise! How do you ever get anything done? Your life must be so boring!"

Rudi leaned toward the two creatures. It’s magic, she whispered.

Her father nodded. Yes. Illusion magic. The box conjures characters from short fables and plays out the story. It’s a storytelling device.

The tortoise spoke, its voice soft and calm. "Life isn’t always about rushing around. It’s more important to do something right than to do it fast. I can prove it."

How? the hare demanded.

I challenge you to a race. See that hill in the distance? I’ll beat you to it.

Of course, the hare fell about laughing.

Rudi could hardly contain her delight. Daddy, it’s amazing! Thank you! So I can say the name of the fable and bring it to life?

Indeed. If the box knows the story, then it’ll conjure the characters. And if it doesn’t know the story, then you can simply tell that story, and the box will listen and learn.

The tortoise had set off on its journey. The ghostly figure would take forever to travel a few measly yards, never mind reach a distant hill. What was it thinking, challenging the hare to a race?

Fables are lessons in morality, her father explained. They were written to pass on simple messages—don’t be greedy, don’t be mean, always try to do the right thing, and so on. Many are very simple indeed. For example, when the fox couldn’t reach the juicy overhanging grapes, it gave up and said it didn’t care because they probably tasted nasty and sour anyway. That’s where the expression ‘sour grapes’ comes from—a person who is jealous and bitter just because he can’t have something he wants.

Rudi’s mouth dropped open. Did that really happen?

No. It’s a story designed to make a point. Want another? A couple owned a goose that laid golden eggs, but one egg a day wasn’t enough for them, so they killed the goose and cut it open, thinking there must be tons of gold inside—only there was none, because the goose only made one golden egg a day. And now they had nothing. The moral there is—

Don’t be so greedy!

Her father’s eyebrows shot up. Exactly. You get it. He smiled and climbed to his feet. I’ll leave you with it.

But . . . I don’t know the names of any fables!

He smiled and extracted a piece of wrinkled paper from his pocket. I wrote a few down. But I’m told the Box of Fables isn’t only for fables. Perhaps you can tell stories of your own? Some of your favorite fairy tales, for example. Teach the box first, and then it’ll conjure them for you thereafter.

Rudi hugged her dad tight. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

She watched the tortoise for the next half hour, but its progress was painfully slow. And the hare, in no hurry whatsoever, decided to take a nap about halfway to the finish line. Why not? After all, it could sprint the rest of the way in a fraction of the time it would take the tortoise.

Fables are nice, she thought, but fairy tales are better. Rapunzel could come to life right here under my tree! I could watch the Big Bad Wolf huffing and puffing to blow the house down! Way better than imagining it.

So Rudi went to the house and sifted through her collection of fairy tales. Little Red Riding Hood, Rapunzel, Three Little Pigs . . . all of them were her favorites. She clasped the books to her chest and rushed back outside.

Two neighboring girls stood by the gate. They pointed and giggled the moment they saw Rudi, as they often did. Weirdo! one shouted. They made some strange barking noises, then fled, laughing while they ran.

Holding back her tears, Rudi returned to her oak tree and settled against the open box, comforted by the magical sensation of purple energy curling around her shoulders.

She opened a book and started to read. Once upon a time . . .

Chapter 1

The Traveling Salesman

Hal Franklin landed close to where Mrs. Hunter stood. Her arms were crossed, a frown creased her forehead, and she tapped one foot over and over. She was obviously growing impatient.

Well, I guess that’s it for a week, Hal thought.

He almost couldn’t bear to fold his dragon wings away, so he paused with the morning sunlight filtering through the leathery webbing. He angled one wing up a little to cast a shadow over Mrs. Hunter. At least she didn’t have to squint in the glare now.

Emily, in her naga form, was busy slithering around in circles nearby, flattening the grass with her serpentine coils in a large, graceful figure-eight. Dewey watched with a faraway look on his face, for once in control of his normally restless centaur hoofs. He had a small, two-wheeled cart hitched to him, filled with bags and trunks.

The others were still busy flying, running, or stomping about the place. Hal felt a little cheated; he could have stretched out his final jaunt for another minute or two! He couldn’t fly off again now, though. Mrs. Hunter didn’t have that much patience.

Resigned to his awful fate, he reverted to human form and ambled toward Emily and Dewey. Now that his wings no longer shielded Mrs. Hunter from the sun’s rays, she squinted and deepened her frown.

Keeping his voice low so she couldn’t hear, Hal whispered to his friends, "This next week is going to be the worst ever."

Emily rolled her eyes. "Oh, come on, Hal, it’s just a bit of schoolwork, and our grades are terrible right now."

Who cares? he growled.

Dewey eased closer. I’m actually looking forward to it. This place we’re going to sounds cool.

What, a depressing cabin in the woods?

But Hal had to admit it sounded intriguing. Staying in a cabin in the woods for a week might be fun—except for the massive amount of schoolwork they were expected to do.

A tiny Abigail buzzed into view, her little faerie wings a blur as she zigzagged lazily toward them. But before she arrived, a flash of red fur shot out of the woods. Thomas the manticore leapt about with glinting blue eyes, snapping jaws, and boundless energy.

Abigail rolled her eyes, grew to full size, and landed next to Hal. He’s gone crazy.

Best to get it out now, I suppose, Emily agreed.

Robbie showed up next, though he’d never really been out of sight. It was hard for a shaggy-haired, broad-shouldered, fifteen-foot ogre to skulk about unseen. Gaan whaaan, he rumbled in his usual nonsensical way.

Hal shook his head. Nope, didn’t catch that, buddy.

Lauren flew in, her white-feathered wings brilliant in the sunshine. Most harpies were filthy, wretched creatures, but this one hadn’t grown up in a disgusting nest filled with rotting carcasses and well-chewed bones. Landing on large talons, she stood for a moment as Hal had earlier, wings spread wide as if reluctant to fold them away. Then she sighed, fluttered her feathers, and glared at Thomas with yellow eyes.

What’s your problem? she demanded.

The manticore stopped jumping about. He planted all four legs wide, with his red-furred body low to the ground and his scorpion tail arced high. Panting hard, he snarled and said, "My problem? Isn’t it obvious? Spending a whole week in some dumpy place learning math and history isn’t my idea of fun. All I wanna do is run around in the forest."

"Oh, well, it could be fun, Hal said carefully as he glanced over at Mrs. Hunter. She couldn’t have failed to overhear Thomas’s cutting remarks. And, you know, we’d still be doing math and history anyway, even if we stayed in school this week."

"Yeah, but not all morning and afternoon! Thomas protested. I don’t even know why I’m here. It’s not like I care about grades."

A girl’s voice floated out of nowhere. Stop whining, Thomas. The time will go a lot quicker if we try and have fun.

Emily laughed and squinted. Where are you, Darcy? She jumped and spun around. Oh, very funny.

Thanks to their camouflage that rendered them invisible, a whole family of dryads could stand nearby without anyone realizing. Darcy was no exception; she was right there, yet her magic allowed her to blend in perfectly with whatever lay behind her, in this case a couple of bushes and the fringe of the forest.

What surprised Hal, though, was the pair of glowing red eyes that peered up at him from the long grass. Fenton was there, too, creeping stealthily on his short reptilian legs and dragging his long, sleek, totally black body and tail. His kind was so rare that it still didn’t have an official name.

Hal sighed. All nine of them were present now. That meant—

"If you’re all quite finished, Mrs. Hunter announced, approaching them with her hand shielding her gaze from the sun. You asked for ten minutes, I generously gave you fifteen, and you took twenty. Are we all here? Darcy?"

She did a quick scan, using her finger to mentally count.

All here, Mrs. Hunter, Emily confirmed. We’re ready.

The lady—their teacher and Lauren’s mom—nodded with relief. Good. Now, everyone except Dewey, please switch back to your human selves. Into the Enchanted Woods we go!

Eight of the shapeshifters reverted to human form. Dewey remained a centaur so he could pull the cart, a smug look on his face as they all followed Mrs. Hunter on a trail through the trees. The small cart tilted from side to side on the uneven ground.

The forest quickly grew dense. Hal peered with interest at the rough bark, gnarly knotholes, twisted limbs, and low-hanging vines all around. It was early March, which in Old Earth would be about time for leaves to start sprouting—but spring came early here in New Earth, and the canopy was already thick and green. According to Miss Simone, it was because of the slightly higher levels of oxygen. But it could also be because of the magic in the air.

Doesn’t look enchanted to me, Thomas grumbled.

He had a point. Though the trees sported a thick growth of leaves, everything seemed a little ordinary, like any other forest.

We’re not there yet, Mrs. Hunter called over her shoulder. You’ll know when we are.

Hal glanced back to see Fenton and Darcy holding hands as usual. In other news, Emily had recently declared a romance with a handsome naga. It was almost sickening how much love filled the air! Then again, Robbie and Lauren seemed to have cooled off a little. They walked side by side but seemed more like friends these days. Meanwhile, Thomas had no interest in anyone, and Dewey was too shy to even talk about such things.

That left Abigail. Penny for your thoughts? she asked.

Oh, it’s nothing interesting, Hal muttered.

As if she’d read his mind, she slipped her hand into his. Boring relationship stuff?

Whoa! How did you know?

She kept her voice to a whisper. Faerie intuition. Either that, or a telltale smirk on your face whenever you spy on Fenton and Darcy.

Thomas let out a sigh. Mrs. Hunter, how far is this place?

Up ahead, their teacher spoke over her shoulder. Not too far. We’ll see the enchantment at work very soon.

Before they reached the so-called enchantment, a horse and covered wagon appeared ahead, rumbling and rattling slowly toward them on the trail. An old man with a floppy hat and well-worn coat sat hunched in his wooden seat, gripping the reins as his sad-looking grey mare trudged along.

Move to one side, children, Mrs. Hunter called back to them. Let this gentleman pass.

While Hal, Abigail, Robbie, Lauren, Darcy, Fenton, and Emily shuffled to the left, Thomas annoyingly sauntered across to the right and stood there with his arms crossed.

Thomas! Lauren scolded him. Stop being a nuisance.

Dewey, in centaur form, was the only one who couldn’t simply step aside. He had to back up a little, then steer his cart off the trail into the longer grass and nudge up alongside a tree.

The approaching traveler tipped his hat at them. Mornin’. Need any knick-knacks? Got some lovely stuff for sale!

No thank you, Mrs. Hunter said with a smile.

You sure, ma’am? Some toys for your kids, p’haps? Wanna sort through a pile of clothes? Like new, they are. Might find some to fit. I’ll do you a good deal if—

That’s very kind of you, but no thank you. She seemed to be struggling for a quick, simple excuse. I’m a teacher, and these are my students.

Oh! The man brightened and swept off his hat to reveal a mass of tangled white hair. He didn’t seem quite as old now, maybe in his fifties. Still old, but not ancient. So you need books! Got plenty of fascinating books, ma’am. Perfect for school kids. You can have ’em at half price.

"After he’s doubled the price," Abigail whispered.

Hal grinned.

No, really, thank you, Mrs. Hunter said, her smile fading. We have all the books we need.

But the man had stood up and was, rather unsteadily, climbing into his wagon through a tent-like opening at the front. Be right back, he said. Hold on there a minute. Got something else you might like.

Mrs. Hunter let out an exasperated sigh.

We could just keep walking, Fenton suggested.

No, let’s not be rude. But if he persists for too long . . .

The man appeared suddenly, sticking his head out between the flaps. Forgive me. Chester’s the name. Chester Beauregard-Flannigan III. And you are, ma’am . . . ?

For some reason, she frowned and blinked at him as if his name struck a chord. When she recovered from her surprise, she said, Mrs. Hunter.

He raised his eyebrows. "Oh, Mrs. Hunter, eh? No first name, then? When she didn’t reply, the man shrugged and produced a large, silver candlestick. He brandished it proudly. Deal of the day, Mrs. Hunter. I’m sure you like fine things, and this will go nicely in your dining room. You live around here, do you?"

No, and I have no use for a candlestick, thank you.

But Chester wasn’t to be thwarted. He shrugged off the rejection as nothing, dove back inside his wagon, and reappeared holding a pair of large rubber boots. "Now, these beauties—"

Mrs. Hunter finally found her breaking point. Thank you, but we’ll be on our way now. This way, class.

She sounded a little annoyed, and everyone knew better than to argue even though the traveling salesman was pretty entertaining. Leading the way, she ignored the man’s disappointed expression and resumed marching along the side of the trail. The shapeshifters followed, edging past the large mud-spattered wagon.

The problem was, it blocked the lane, and there was no way Dewey could drag his two-wheeled cart past.

Excuse me, would you please move over? Mrs. Hunter called, backtracking a little.

Chester popped his head out of the flaps at the rear of the wagon, which looked exactly like the front. Can’t, ma’am, sorry. Don’t want to get stuck in the bushes. Maybe your centaur friend can find a way through the trees?

"You can move over a little bit, she said impatiently. There’s enough room for your wagon and Dewey’s cart if you’d be kind enough to try."

Ah, well, you might be right, you might be right. The man pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully. Tell you what. Buy something, and I’ll do my very best to scoot aside. How’s that? Sound fair?

No, it doesn’t, Mrs. Hunter said through gritted teeth.

I can move the wagon out of the way, Robbie said softly. Say the word, Mrs. Hunter.

And I can bite the old duffer, Thomas added.

Mrs. Hunter shushed him. Then she sighed and closed her eyes. Fine. Chester, I’ll buy one thing. One thing only! But I didn’t bring much money, so—

Never fear, my dear! the man exclaimed with a grin. Even a few pennies will buy my next meal and get me through the day. Care to step up here and take a look at what I have to offer?

She looked horrified at the thought. Just . . . anything will do. Not the candlestick or boots, though. And not a fishing pole, either.

Hal and Abigail exchanged a glance. Not a fishing pole? That was an oddly specific item to mention.

Maybe something educational? Mrs. Hunter added.

The man on the cart brightened. Ah, like books?

Seeing that Mrs. Hunter was floundering, Hal offered a suggestion. A book about dragons would be cool.

Or about bugs, Robbie chipped in.

Poetry! Dewey called.

Thomas scoffed. Poetry? Ugh. Poetry makes me want to vomit.

How about a good fairy tale? Emily said. One with a princess and a handsome prince.

"That makes me want to vomit, Fenton remarked. But then Darcy gave him a soft punch on the arm, and he reddened. I mean, a fairy tale, sure . . ."

Chester stood up straight and held up his index finger. Fairy tales! I have precisely the thing, children—the absolute perfect item for a group of ten-year-olds!

We’re thirteen! everyone hollered at once.

The absolute perfect thing for a group of thirteen-year-olds! The man ducked inside, calling over his shoulder as he went. You wait and see. You’re gonna love it. Better than stuffy old books.

The group glanced around at each other. Mrs. Hunter was busy counting a handful of coins, looking doubtful. Emily seemed to be the only one of them eager for an item related to fairy tales. Everyone else looked bemused.

Hal sidled closer to Mrs. Hunter. Do you know him? When he said his name earlier—

"I know of him," she murmured.

Who’d he sell a fishing pole to? Abigail asked.

But Chester reappeared then, dragging something into the open. It was a large wooden trunk with a rounded lid and sturdy metal braces. You’ll be doing me a favor, actually. This old coffer takes up too much room. He hoisted the box closer so that it perched on the edge of the cart, almost at tipping point. It’s called the Box of Fables. Don’t know who built it, or why, but opening it will release a fable.

Huh? Thomas said. What does that even mean?

It’s too big, Mrs. Hunter complained, shaking her head. A small item would be preferable, Chester. I don’t have much money, anyway.

But the man seemed dead set on unloading the large wooden trunk. I’ll take what you’ve got in your hand, ma’am. Here—you boys, come and grab this from me.

Despite Mrs. Hunter’s protests,