Ickbee walked over. “Read the words that you see,” she said. “It could be an enchanted letter. Your father could have prepared for the chance that you would see this letter with your very own eyes. An enchanted letter allows for the right message to reach the right people.”
The page looked watery, almost translucent. And soon there were only seven words left:
Truman felt a great rush of love. It swelled in his chest. He looked at Camille. She was teary-eyed. Her chin quivered once and she bit her lip.
“What does it say?” Artwhip asked.
“It’s part of a song, that’s all,” Camille said. “One that he sang to us every night.”
“But it means he’s really here,” Truman added. “I was waiting for some kind of proof. This is it!”
Camille reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out the photograph that Swelda had given her. “He’s a forever child here. Swelda gave me this.”
Truman cupped the picture in his hands. “It’s him. The boy in the museum—I saw him in the snow globe!”
“What museum?” Camille asked.
“One with all kinds of strange exhibits and dead animals and a chopped-off finger in a glass jar,” Truman said excitedly. “He’s really here and he needs us!”
Camille shook her head. “Don’t get all emotional. We have to keep thinking logically about everything or we’ll turn to mush!”
“Camille,” Truman said, his voice quiet, “things are different here. Can’t you feel it? This place, in some strange way, belongs to us—or we belong to it.”
“Yes, yes, heard it before. We’re gramaryes. We’re magical—we’ll have our magical afflictions or our magical gifts. Right. Fine. But—”
“I heard you talking to me,” Truman said. “I was looking at you through the globe and I heard you and I talked back to you and you heard me too. Didn’t you?”
Everyone’s eyes turned to Camille.
“Did you hear him talking to you?” Ickbee asked.
Camille looked at the letter in her hands. “Yes, I heard him. I didn’t want to really believe it. Just that one time, though.”
“Ha-HA!” Ickbee exclaimed. “And did you hear him with both of your ears?”
Camille thought about it. “Just my right ear,” she said.
“And I only heard you in my left ear,” Truman said.
Ickbee clapped. “Just like Swelda and me and our seeing eyes! Ho my! Ho dear! See how the long line lives on?”
“They’re really gramaryes,” Otwell said.
Artwhip and Coldwidder were smiling. Binderbee nodded and shook his small fist victoriously.
“Let’s not make a big deal about it,” Camille said. “So we can hear each other speaking—where we come from, people do it all the time with cell phones.”
“I think it is a big deal,” Truman said. “A very big one.”
Camille handed the letter to Artwhip. “Here. This really belongs to you.”
“No,” he said. “You keep it.”
Camille looked at Truman. “Do you want it?”
“Yes,” he said. “But I don’t have any pockets.”
Truman could tell that Camille didn’t want to hold the letter. Something about it scared her. Maybe she was afraid because it did mean something to her. As she folded the letter gently and slipped it into her pocket with the photograph, Truman saw that her hands were shaking, ever so slightly.
• • • •
Over the course of the next half hour, everyone moved quickly. Ickbee held up what looked like a fisherman’s tackle box. “My stitchery kit! I’ll stitch up the bleeder. I’m not a flesh tailor, exactly, but I do know how to sew.”
“Are you sure it’s necessary?” Artwhip asked.
She inspected the wound, nodding away. Coldwidder helped move Artwhip from the wagon to the couch. Ickbee handed him Truman’s snow globe. “Gaze upon this,” she said. “Take your mind off the pain.” Artwhip held the globe but squeezed his eyes shut, and she set to work.
Meanwhile, Coldwidder and Otwell helped load things onto Chickie’s scaly back. Ickbee had canteens for water, a lantern hooked to a pole, and a fire-starter kit, which, with a fire-breather on the tip, seemed a little silly to Truman and Camille. But they did as they were told and prepared food, with instructions from Ickbee to unload her cupboards into deep rucksacks—root jerky, hardened fatty lard cakes, tins of stew, fresh tarty-tarts. Truman handed out woolen clothes knit by mewlers—lopsided hats, sweaters with different-length sleeves, three-fingered gloves. Truman, Camille, Artwhip, and Coldwidder bundled up in layers of clothes—Otwell was too large and Binderbee too small for any of the items.
Finally Ickbee finished her row of tidy little knots on Artwhip’s chest, and Chickie was loaded up. Except for Otwell, who was outside making sure that Chickie had enough bark to eat, everyone was huddled around Artwhip.
“You okay?” Coldwidder asked Artwhip. “If you ride on Chickie and the rest of us walk, you think you can make the trip?”
Artwhip nodded. He pushed himself up and swung his feet to the floor, wincing through the pain of his stitches. “Truman, Camille, how about you tell us what you see in the globe one more time before you go?”
Truman and Camille rushed over, shook the globe, and stared into it. It was empty except for the snow itself—a white slate—and then words emerged:
To find the Ever Breath and your evil father
Meet me in the Dark Heart.
T.T.S.
“Who in the world is T.T.S.?” Artwhip shouted.
“What’s the Dark Heart?” Camille asked.
“I’m not sure I want to know,” Truman said, seething over the word evil.
“Camille,” Ickbee cried, “look in your seeing globe!” Camille had hidden her globe in a cupboard and now she whipped the door open and pulled it out. “It’s the carved wooden hand on the Ever Breath’s pedestal!” She shook her head and then turned to look at the others, her face slack and pale.
“And?” Truman asked. “What’s wrong?”
“The hand,” she said. “It’s about halfway there.”
“Halfway where?” Artwhip asked.
“It’s almost closed up,” she said. “Into a fist.”
Otwell came back into the hut. He barely fit, what with his hulking shoulders and the walls caving in. He noticed the quiet intensity, the faces shadowed with gloom. “What’s wrong now?”
“We’re headed into the Dark Heart,” Coldwidder said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Snow-Rooting Fire-Breathers
“You’ll have to travel straight through the night. There’s no time for sleep,” Ickbee said.
“We should arrive by dawn.” Coldwidder paced back and forth. “If we don’t get attacked too many times.”
Truman didn’t like the sound of that, but he didn’t want to ask any questions just then. They had to hurry.
Ickbee was staying behind, defending her post. “I can’t leave my mewlers and the passageway. Someone’s got to keep propping up the hut!” she said as the mewlers climbed over and around her with nervous energy.
Artwhip, Coldwidder, Otwell, and Binderbee—in Otwell’s breast pocket—said their quick farewells to Ickbee.
But when Truman and Camille came up to say goodbye, Ickbee grabbed them, hugged them to her chest, and began to cry. “I know that you have to go, but I hate to see it,” she told them. “Be careful! Promise me?”
They promised, their voices muffled by her sweater.
Then she released them, but she kept on crying and blowing her nose into her hanky. Once they’d left, she waved the hanky at them from the doorway of the withering hut.
Praddle was poking along through the snow, hopping from fire-breather footprint to fire-breather footprint, following Coldwidder up the path.
“Praddle!” Truman called.
She turned around.
“You should stay here,” he said.
Praddle shook her head and mewled defiant
ly.
He ran to her and picked her up. “Come on,” he said, rubbing her between her ears. “Ickbee might need you.”
She stared at him and then purred, “Be carrreful!” She jumped from his arms and ran back to the house.
“Aren’t you allergic to those creatures?” Camille asked, sniffling.
“Nope! Crazy thing, huh? I always wanted a dog. Why not a mewler?”
“Hurry up!” Coldwidder shouted. He was up front leading the way—already a hundred yards uphill—holding the lantern on the long pole to help light the path. Camille and Truman got in line behind the fire-breather, with Artwhip on her back, and Otwell and Binderbee.
Truman wasn’t sure what to think of the expedition. They were closer now. They had a destination. He was with Camille again. All of these things felt right, but he was full of dread. Plus, he was already freezing cold. It was dark outside now and the wind was whipping up. It had felt wonderful to exchange his leafy jacket for a knit one, along with mittens and hat and extra socks, but the mewlers were lousy knitters and all of their stitches were wobbly, with gaps and holes and snags. The wind needled through.
He caught up to Camille and was about to ask her if she had any ideas, but she started talking before he had a chance.
“Remember when you were going through the passageway, there was the small room with the pedestal of the hand?” she asked.
“Yes,” Truman said.
“I found husks in there.”
“Husks?”
“Dried exoskeletons of locusts,” she said. “Now I wonder if locust fairies shed their exoskeletons like locusts do—when they’re ready to fly.”
Truman remembered stepping on something in that room, something with a strange fragile crunch. “Do you think they crawled in somehow and then, once they could fly—”
“They airlifted the Ever Breath out!”
Truman and Camille ran ahead up the path.
“Listen!” Truman shouted. “Camille’s figured something out!”
“What if the Ever Breath was airlifted out of the passageway by locust fairies—”
Binderbee hushed them. Everyone stopped and looked at him. “I forgot to mention that we might be tailed by someone from the Office of Official Affairs,” the mouse whispered.
“Perfect!” Coldwidder said.
“I hear those types stab first and ask questions later,” Otwell said.
“They’re not our only problem,” Coldwidder said. “We smell like a hops and chops house with all of Ickbee’s food on us. We’re a walking feast. We’ll lure all kinds of beasts to us, smelling like this.”
“If locust fairies stole the E.B.,” Binderbee whispered, “who put them up to it? They couldn’t have been acting alone.” Sitting in Otwell’s pocket, he reminded Truman of a hood ornament on a very large car. “You know,” he added, “Dobbler has a hat—one that he’s very proud of—a fedora, actually, made of living locust fairies.”
“I once saw a robe of locust fairies,” Truman said. “Only the hem of it. I was hiding in a log. I never saw the person, though I do know that the person was very small and was wearing little boots.”
“I don’t care what my enemy’s fashion tastes are! I want to know who we’re about to face in the Dark Heart,” Coldwidder said, trying to keep his voice down.
“Me too,” Otwell whispered. “A band of warlocks? Wild fire-breathers?”
Chickie let out a plume of angry flame. Domesticated fire-breathers didn’t like wild fire-breathers.
“We’ve got to be prepared for all of them,” Coldwidder said, “at any time. Especially as they’ll smell us coming.”
“What can we do?” Truman said. “We need the food!”
“I refuse to part with food,” Artwhip said. “I have a rule against that.”
“Me too,” Otwell said in his low, sonorous voice.
“Personally, I’m not that hungry,” Camille said. “I ate bean loaf and it didn’t really agree with me.” She belched. “Excuse me.”
“And I have a rule against getting popped in someone’s mouth as a side dish!” Binderbee said.
“I’m pretty sure that the colder it gets, the more calories we burn just trying to keep warm, much less climbing up a mountain,” Camille said.
“Calories?” Coldwidder asked. “What are they?”
“Never heard of them,” Artwhip said.
“Do you think there’s a museum in the Dark Heart?” Truman said.
“Ha!” Coldwidder said. “No! Of course not!”
“How many times have you all been there?” Camille asked.
There was an uncomfortable silence.
“Well?” Truman prompted.
“Um, I’ve never been,” Coldwidder said
Camille turned to Otwell. “Maybe you’ve been there?”
He shook his head.
“Binderbee?” Truman said.
“No,” Binderbee replied.
Artwhip raised his hand. “Never.”
“You see,” Coldwidder said, “not many people have actually survived a journey into the Dark Heart.”
“Are you serious?” Truman asked.
“Look at it this way,” Binderbee said. “If we don’t go and try to help, we’ll all die anyway!”
“Oh, that makes me feel a lot better,” Camille said.
A quiet intensity settled over them. It was dark now. They kept hiking in the moonlight through the snow-blanketed fields, with the wide-open, starry, wind-whipped sky overhead. Truman saw a herd of golden-horned rhinoceroses nestled around a protective outcropping of rock.
“Winged night-serpents,” Artwhip said, pointing up. A flock of strange long birds glided by.
“Do you feel like you’re being watched?” Truman asked Camille.
“Stab first, ask questions later,” she answered under her breath.
Slowly but surely, the snow was getting deeper and the paths steeper as they headed up the mountain.
“I once read about surviving in the Alps in winter,” Camille said. “I think we’re supposed to take long strides, heels first. It’s the best way to cover ground quickly in the snow.”
They all tried it, but still it was hard work, especially for Coldwidder and the kids, who had such short legs. Truman was the smallest kid in his class, after all. And how much strength did he have left? His legs were sore, and the shoes Praddle had made for him, now stuffed with wool socks, were raising blisters on his heels. Plus, it was bitter cold.
“Wait,” Artwhip said. “Are you sure this is the right way?”
“Are you questioning my ability to set a course?” Coldwidder barked.
“Are we lost or aren’t we?” Binderbee said.
Camille leaned over to inspect one of the ogre’s footprints. “This snow doesn’t look good,” she said.
“Snow is snow!” Coldwidder said.
“It’s layered,” she said. “Packed snow is a good sign. Layered snow is a bad sign.”
“A bad sign for what?” Truman asked.
“Avalanches, actually,” Camille said. She had taken Truman’s glasses off and was wiping them on her sleeve. “Do you have those here?”
“Avalanches!” Coldwidder gave a snort. “This isn’t avalanche country. We only have avalanches out near where the snow-rooting fire-breathers live, out in banshee territory.”
“Does anyone else see that?” Artwhip asked, pointing across the snow.
“See what?” Otwell said.
“The smoke,” Artwhip whispered.
Truman looked out across the snowy field, lit up by the fat, bright moon, and saw tendrils of smoke spiraling up from the snow—ten or fifteen spirals. “Where’s the smoke coming from?”
“Snow-rooting fire-breathers,” Artwhip replied.
“That’s impossible!” Coldwidder said. “We’re clearly far from banshee territory and so there can’t be any snow-rooting fire-breathers, as they have been semidomesticated by banshees.”
“Except that there are
snow-rooting fire-breathers!” Binderbee shouted. “Let’s get out of here, Otwell!”
The ogre took one thunderous leap, and there was a cracking sound, a rumble.
“Don’t run! You’ll only shake things up!” Camille shouted.
Everyone stopped and stood still except Coldwidder. He was looking up at the sky. “Isn’t that the North Star?” he asked.
“What do fire-breathers do?” Truman whispered.
“They tend to attack and then roast people,” Artwhip whispered back.
“Now, now, let’s not be so dramatic about it,” Coldwidder chided. “Sometimes they only singe you.”
“If I get singed because you got us lost—” Binderbee began.
“The banshees can call fire-breathers off,” Otwell said. “I’m married to a banshee. I’m actually almost fluent in Banshee—from listening to my mother-in-law bad-mouth me for years.”
“Listen,” Camille said. “Just in case there is an avalanche, you should try to get to the edges of it, where the snow is finer. And swim. I’ve read about it in books.”
“Swim? In snow?” Coldwidder said. “That’s idiot-speak right there!”
“I’m serious,” Camille said. “All of the books tell you to make these swimming motions, very quickly, while the snow is still light and on the move. If it hardens, which happens fast, you’ll get stuck and you can suffocate and die. And if you get stuck, try to punch your hand or kick your leg out above the surface so that someone can dig you out.”
“The fire-breathers dig tunnels, which makes avalanches more likely,” Artwhip said.
“Did you learn that at your precious Academy?” Coldwidder scoffed.
“I did,” Artwhip said. “And I learned that once they smell food, snow-rooting fire-breathers send grunting calls through the tunnels and start to swarm.”
“Does this look like snow-rooting fire-breathers to you now, Coldwidder?” Binderbee said. “Hmm?”
The others looked around and saw that they were standing in the middle of a loose ring of smoke plumes.
Coldwidder was flustered. He started stammering, “W-w-w-we’ve got to …”
“Keep calm,” Artwhip said. “Maybe they only want our food.”
Just then, a fire-breather’s head popped up from the snow. Truman thought it looked like a terrier’s, at first, with shaggy fur and soft brown puppy eyes, but then he noticed the ridge of spikes that started at the back of its head. Chickie let out a whinnying snort of flame. This was one of her relations, but it was obvious she was afraid of it.