General Huba is not a strategist. He isn’t even a leader in the classical sense. He is embodied force – blunt, loud, self-assured. A former order-follower turned self-appointed general, he rules over the remains of Heino’s park like a warlord with borrowed power.
When Anne and her companions reach the devastated island in Book Three, they find a strange parody of a bandit dictatorship – only slightly theatrical, with masks, uniforms, and declarations of “political will.” Huba’s logic is familiar from history: this land once was ours, therefore it will always be. He lays claim to the “Belly of the Whale” – not because he built it, not because he understands it, but because he cannot bear the thought that something beautiful might exist beyond his control.
His offensive is brutal and nearly successful, but overconfidence blinds him. He underestimates the resolve of the inhabitants – and most of all, he forgets about Mr Eagle, a former military commander far more capable than Huba ever imagined. The Ghosts arrive not as allies or enemies, but as a force greater than all. And they bring the game to an end.
But in the moment of his death – lifted into the air by something he cannot defeat – Huba remembers not glory, not conquest, but light. A small memory. A fairground. One of those he loved as a child. In that final moment, we glimpse the child behind the tyrant, the lost boy beneath the boar’s tusks. And we can almost hear him whisper – “Rosebud.”
It doesn’t save him. But it explains him.
