There was silence—nothing but the sounds of the water below and the whipping air.
“Are you there?”
I’m breathing!
“Just pretend you’re in a dream. A good dream where you get to fly. Haven’t you ever flown in your dreams?”
No!
“Well, pretend anyway. It’s a good dream.”
It’s a good dream. A good dream … very good dream …
“We’ve missed important clues,” Truman said. “Little details that should tie everything together! I’m letting my mind go through all of the things we’ve experienced. We’ve got to rummage around and find some connection we’ve over-looked. Okay? Are you listening?”
Still breathing! Camille said.
Truman’s bird dipped lower, gliding closer to the water. Truman could hear the rushing water under the bird’s outstretched wings.
“The photograph,” Truman said. He didn’t know how much time was left. “The one of Swelda and Ickbee’s little lost sister, Milta, with her scar, her jar of bugs. That locust-fairy robe I saw. Dad in the museum with the chopped-off finger in the glass case. The four-fingered wave of that music maker—”
Stop! Camille said.
“Are you talking to me or the vulture?” Truman said.
You, she said. The chopped-off finger … did it belong to the music maker? A roaring rush of water started to build. Do you hear that? she said.
“Block it out!” Truman pictured the chopped-off finger. “It was wearing a ring. A swirled design.” His mind flashed back. “Milta had a scar, remember? A curlicue scar—the same shape as the ring’s swirl!”
And then there was her jar of bugs—like the ones I saw in my globe lighting the passageway that the prisoners were digging! Camille said.
They seemed to be getting closer and closer to the rushing, roaring water. The only thing Truman could hear besides the water was Camille’s voice, which seemed to come from within him.
Did Milta love bugs so much that she would make a robe out of them? Did she love them so much that she would give a locust-fairy fedora as a gift? “Could she be the one behind the locust fairies’ stealing the Ever Breath?” Truman wondered aloud. “But isn’t she long gone? Disappeared?”
And why, Camille said breathlessly, why is she a sad story locked away in the family’s sad sack?
“And if she’s the one behind it all, then who is T.T.S.?”
Truman’s vulture gave a screeching call. Other vultures answered. The bird veered, swinging Truman’s body outward and then back. The rushing water sounded even louder—a constant drumming in Truman’s ears. He felt a misty spray, and then they seemed to be on the other side of it.
The air felt chilled and damp. There were strange cave-like echoes. The sound of the rushing water was still there, thrumming in the background.
Truman, Camille said. Where are they taking us?
“I don’t know, but I feel we’re getting closer to the Dark Heart, not farther away.”
For a moment there were only the strange echoes and the noise of rushing water. And then Truman heard Camille’s voice again in his ear. Truman?
“Yes?”
You were right.
And Truman didn’t have to ask her what he was right about. He knew what she meant. This place did belong to them and they belonged to it. “Thanks,” Truman whispered, and he hoped that she knew what he meant: Thanks for saying that, but also thanks for everything. Mainly, thanks for being his sister even though she didn’t have much of a choice.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
T.T.S.
The vulture set Truman down and with one quick snap of its beak snipped the webbing that covered his eyes. His wrists were still bound behind his back. There he stood, facing a wooden door that was engraved with a large swirl right in its center. In the middle of the swirl there was a peephole, and on the other side of the peephole was one large blue eye, blinking at him. The peephole was not at adult height. It was right at Truman’s level.
“Hello?” Truman said.
The eye disappeared.
And then Truman heard a deep bellow behind him.
He turned around and saw an enormous cave with a waterfall pouring down over the center of its opening. Rushing in around the waterfall on either side were more vultures. They were carrying Coldwidder, Artwhip, and Camille. And then there were three vultures hauling in Otwell—one clamped to the back of his shirt and two holding up his legs. He was the source of the bellowing.
“Easy now! Not upside down, please! I’ve got a mouse hanging on for dear life!”
There was Binderbee hanging on to the edge of Otwell’s breast pocket—wide-eyed with fear, the wind rippling his fur.
One by one, the vultures dropped their captives in front of the door.
“See! I told you I’d get you to the Dark Heart!” Coldwidder said.
“Thanks a lot!” Binderbee said. “I almost fell to my death!” He was severely windblown; his fur had been gusted in every direction.
“I don’t feel so good,” Camille said, looking blanched.
Truman thought of the foggy, twisting roads that his mother had driven over to get to their grandmother’s house. And, oddly enough, as nervous as he felt, he didn’t feel the least bit queasy. “Carsick?”
“No, vulture-sick!”
The vulture who’d carried Truman squawked, ruffled its wings, walked up to the door, and knocked with its beak.
“Bring them in!” The voice was high-pitched and giddy, as if they were the first guests to show up at a birthday party.
The door opened and there stood the music maker. He smiled and waved his signature four-fingered wave, and then his eyes landed on Artwhip. “You!” he said. “I told you to play dead! Well, it’s not my fault if you’re going to have go through it all over again. I’ll make sure I get it right this time!”
“Good luck with that,” Artwhip muttered.
The vultures shoved everyone into the room, their hands bound behind their backs, and slammed the door, standing guard. The room was pulsing with white wings, so much so that it was almost impossible to see. Through little glimpses, though, Truman recognized this as the overstuffed room he’d seen in the globe, the one that looked like a museum. The locust-fairy wings were a constant buzz, but there were also distant noises—tromping, banging, clatter, and thuds—coming from somewhere deeper in the Dark Heart.
“This is it!” Truman said.
Through the beating wings, he glimpsed the taxidermied creatures frozen in moments of terror or pain, and the enormous collection of weaponry mounted on the walls, which were draped in velvet. Truman searched for his father, but to no avail.
Finally there was a sharp whistle, and the white flutter of wings swarmed around a small shape that walked out from behind an enormous stuffed reindeerlike creature. The locust fairies quickly fluttered to form a cloak around the figure. All Truman could see were small black boots.
It was the creature he’d seen while lying in the hollow log with Praddle.
This person was about Truman and Camille’s size, and moved in a bouncy young way. But a large lump sat on the figure’s curled shoulders.
“Who are you?” Artwhip asked.
“Let’s play a guessing game!” The voice that rose up from the cloak was girlish. “I’m not the first sister and I’m not the second sister.”
“You’re the third sister?” Camille said.
“Yes!” the voice said. “Isn’t that enough of a clue?”
Truman thought for a moment. “The third sister. T.T.S.?”
“Oooooh! You’re good at games!” She then turned to face all of them and very slowly lowered her hood. And there was Milta, with her blond hair and her curlicue scar. She was still a little girl, young in every way, except the hump on her back.
“You’re a forever child too,” Truman said.
“Did my hateful sisters forget to mention that? They’ve always enjoyed forgetting me! Like the time they fo
rgot to pick me up from my evil music teacher’s house on the day that the man struck me across the cheek for not practicing and I got this awful scar!”
The music maker stepped forward. “I had problems with my temper back then, but she cured me of that!”
“As soon as I ran away from home, I hunted him down and chopped off the finger with the ring—fully intact!” She pointed to the glass jar sitting on a high shelf. “Ring and all! Quite beautiful now!”
The music maker rubbed the nub on his hand and glowered.
“I’d love to chop him to bits completely, but he’s so loyal!” She smiled at the music maker sweetly. “I like to collect. Mostly objects of suffering, but I’ll also collect sorrow, despair, agony!”
Camille spoke up. “Didn’t you have a snow globe—a gift from your father? There is a third one. Isn’t there?”
“No,” Milta said quickly. “I smashed it!” She turned on her heel and took a few marching steps. “That doesn’t matter now. None of it does! Anyway, I’ve been awaiting an audience! Let me give you a behind-the-scenes look at the new exhibit that I’m planning to unveil!”
She clapped and a few locust fairies flew over to a velvet curtain that hid one corner of the room. They lifted the curtain and tied it back, revealing a boy in a gilded cage.
“Camille! Truman!” the boy said.
It was their father—a kid in a tall, narrow cage, his hands gripping the bars, his face dusty and thin. On the wall behind his cage was the wrought-iron key on a hook.
“Being a forever child runs in the family!” Milta said.
Truman and Camille started to run to him, but Milta’s voice stopped them in their tracks. “Please stay on this side of the velvet rope!”
They froze.
“Listen to her very carefully,” their father said. He looked up at the top of the cage. Some fat spiders were creeping along the upper bars, and there, suspended over their father’s head from the ceiling of the cage was an orb—an amber orb with a wavering glow within it.
The breath of A Being Than Which Nothing Greater Can Be Conceived embedded in a stone!
The Ever Breath.
“Holy, holy!” Otwell cried.
Coldwidder gasped and sank to his knees.
Artwhip said, “It’s still breathing! See, Truman, anything is possible. It’s alive.”
Truman could barely breathe himself. “That’s really it,” Camille whispered. “Isn’t it?”
“It has to be,” Truman said.
But as they looked more closely at the orb, they could see that it was suspended by the fine silken webbing, and strands were connected to their father’s arms and legs. He couldn’t move or the Ever Breath itself might fall and smash.
“I set up this system, with a bit of spider power, because I didn’t want him to try to slip away,” Milta told them. “He can be very clever, you know—but not as clever as I am!” The locust fairies of her robe quivered in agreement.
“What are you going to do with him?” Truman asked, his mind whirling. Milta was crazy.
“Ah, well, I have the Ever Breath. My sisters seem to think I’m too little to know how to do anything! But, see, I’ve been spending my life preparing for this, hidden away under this cloak of locust fairies so that they can never see my face, even through their blasted seeing globes. I’ve lived among the blood-betakers and werefolk, learning a certain necessary comfort with hunting to the death. It came to me surprisingly naturally.” She pointed to a taxidermied blood-betaker wearing a medallion, and a snarling wolven man. “I killed and stuffed some of their lesser royalty as souvenirs. And I’ve learned from the banshees how to have power over animals.” She showcased a few snow-rooting fire-breathers. “And I have a special bond with insects. I always have.
“And, of course, I’ve enjoyed weaponry and also I’ve had a lot of fun!” She whirled around the room, and her hump-back looked very much out of place, since everything else about her was spry and light. She stopped at a wall-mounted unicorn’s head. “The unicorn!” She winked. “And, oh! The reindeer, for example—oh so slightly human in the face, this species is! How I enjoy shooting them with automatic arrows from atop my vulture! They never expect an attack by air!”
In one corner, there was a small horned man wearing an Edwell’s Hops and Chops House apron and bow tie. “What about him?” Coldwidder asked.
“Him?” She looked at the waiter with her head tilted as if she couldn’t quite remember. Then she snapped her fingers. “Oh, that’s right! Cold soup! I was irritated, so I had him stuffed.”
“Oh.”
“Now, if you put it all together—A, my frustration at being the littlest, most forgotten, and overlooked child in my family, the one who was not a twin and therefore not entrusted with guarding the passageway in either direction, and B, my love of killing and stuffing things—that will lead you to C: I want my own passageway because I deserve it! And while I’m having it dug for me, why not create my very own pedestal for the Ever Breath?”
“What do you mean?” Truman asked, trying to twist his hands against the webbing on his wrists.
“That old tree root of a hand! Ha! That will never do. Not for me! I’m going to use”—she turned to their father—“I’m going to use your father here! I’ll have him stuffed in the perfect pose so it’s our very own Cragmeal, Dead King of the Jarkmen, holding the Ever Breath in the new passage-way for me forever! What better way to commemorate a new reign?”
“But I thought it took two people to replace the Ever Breath, one on either side,” Camille said. “If you don’t get it right, both worlds will die!”
“And then don’t you need two people to guard the passageway?” Truman added. “Twins?”
Milta squeezed her eyes shut and slammed her hands over her ears. “I WILL NOT HEAR OF TWINS! I WILL NOT HEAR OF TWINS! I WILL NOT HEAR OF TWINS!” She opened her eyes and looked around.
No one said a word.
“See, I have another person,” Milta said. “I’ve struck a deal.” She clapped and a few locust fairies flew to another velvety drape and pulled it back, then tied it with golden ropes. There was an arched opening painted gold. The sounds of banging and chipping and thumping got louder. This was Milta’s passageway.
She walked up to it and shouted: “Wilward!”
“Coming!” And in a few seconds, Truman saw the feathered man from all of the US VERSUS THEM! posters.
“Dobbler!” Binderbee said. “I knew it.”
He strode in holding rolled blueprints under his arm and wearing the locust-fairy fedora. “Hidy ho!” he said, very chipper. “I see the vultures have brought more prisoners! Well, there isn’t much more to do! We’re making great progress. Almost done. But I’ll find something—”
“Wilward!” Milta interrupted. “These aren’t more prisoners that you can set to work. These are my captives! The ones who think they’re going to take back the Ever Breath and free Cragmeal.”
“Oh!” he said, and then his eyes fell on Binderbee. “Wait, you! You’re supposed to be on our side! Us versus Them!”
“And what are you doing here with the enemy?” Binderbee shouted. “Us versus who?”
“Don’t you criticize me! This is a means to an end. Sometimes you have to do bad things to make good things happen!”
“You use fear to hold people hostage, to get more power just like the enemy.” Binderbee strained against the webs that held back his small arms. “But you do it to your own people. You trick them, which makes you even worse than the enemy!”
Dobbler turned to Milta. “You talked me into having Cragmeal stuffed. Why not stuff the rest of them too so he won’t be lonesome?”
“Always thinking of others, Dobbler. That’s what makes you so admirable!”
Binderbee backed away, hiding behind Otwell’s boots.
There was some busy talk then—Milta and Dobbler trying to decide just how to kill them. He preferred something quick. The construction was coming along swiftly and he did
n’t want to waste time. She preferred something a little more creative. “A devilish kind of contraption that chops them up!”
“If they’re chopped up,” the music maker interrupted, “then it’ll be hard to stuff them. So much stitching!”
Truman wasn’t sure exactly when Binderbee stiffened his tail and used it to pick apart the webbing on himself, but the mouse was quick. He scurried up Otwell’s pant leg first, nibbling through the webbing with his sharp teeth, and then he moved on down the line until they were all standing there, completely still, as if their wrists were still tied, when in fact they weren’t.
The only problem of course was Truman and Camille’s father. If they started a fight, he might get jostled, and even the slightest shift could dislodge the Ever Breath, sending it to the floor of the cage, where it would shatter.
But they also knew that they didn’t have much time. The pedestal hand in the passageway at Ickbee’s house—it had to be closing, quickly.
They all exchanged nervous glances. What now?
At that moment, Truman noticed one of the spiders. It was a large, hairy spider, much like the others. But this one seemed angrier, more determined. He was moving quickly from spider to spider, whispering something. Soon, all of the spiders were moving—silently but swiftly—as Milta and Dobbler were fighting about efficiency and creativity and power and the art of living.
“This isn’t just some stupid hobby of mine, you know,” Milta was saying. “I’m not a little kid! I’m an artist! This is my art!”
“We’ve got a job to do,” Dobbler countered. “Once you have real power, you can create all the deathly art you want.”
Some of the spiders were detaching the webs from Cragmeal while others were reinforcing the webbing around the Ever Breath—so much so that it disappeared in a white cocoon.
And when they were done, the spider leader seemed to give Truman a nod.
And then the sign came.
With Binderbee secure in his breast pocket, Otwell Prim, the Ogre of the Webbly Wood, grabbed his sword, swung it over his head, and let out an enormous whoop.