Snowbone (19 page)

“Manu!” cried Snowbone, running over. “Are you all right?”

Manu slowly sat up. His clothes were soaked and clinging to his body. His legs were sticky with a strange, gooey juice and he stank like a dead dog. “Yes,” he said. “I think so.”

“What happened?” asked Blackeye.

“Nothing,” said Manu.

“Nothing?” said Snowbone. “Something must have happened. One minute it was eating you alive and the next it spat you out.”

“Nothing happened, OK?” said Manu.

“Manu!” said Snowbone. “Tell us!”

Manu looked at them uncomfortably. “All right,” he said. “If I must.” He took a deep breath. “I was scared in there. Really scared. I couldn't find a way out and the plant started to spray me with something.
Urgh!
It was thick and snotty. And the smell …”

“We know about that,” said Blackeye. “You're pretty stinky!”

“It's foul, isn't it?” said Manu, pulling a green globule off his legs. “Anyway, I was scared—and I wet myself.”

“You peed on the plant?”
said Snowbone.

Manu nodded and hung his head in shame. “I don't think it liked the taste.”

It had gone very quiet. Manu dared to look at his friends' faces. Snowbone and Blackeye were convulsed in silent laughter. Tears were rolling down Blackeye's cheeks as he tried to keep it all in.

“I'd drunk a full flask of water,” said Manu. “There was ever such a lot of it. About a bucketful.” With that, he started to smile, and the tiddlins exploded into giggles.

“It's not funny!” he said, laughing anyway. “You rotten pair!”

“You're the only rotten thing around here!” said Blackeye. “I suggest you get in that pool and wash it all off, before the parrots start falling from the trees.”

So Manu bathed while the tiddlins laughed until their sides were sore.

“Do you think Skua knew about the flytraps?” said Black-eye when they were walking again.

“Yes!” said Snowbone. “Of course he did! That's why he wanted Ashenpeakers to fetch the Tongue. It all makes sense now.”

But Skua hadn't known about the flytraps. He had a very different reason for sending the tiddlins—as they were about to discover.

he three friends walked on through the afternoon, following the map. Past the bat cave, over the stepping-stones, round the coconut grove.

“That Skua,” grumbled Snowbone for the umpteenth time. “So much for ‘You can have it back here in a few hours.’ This is taking forever.”

“We have to do it,” said Blackeye. “If we don't, we'll never get to the Nova Land and we'll never find That Woman.”

“I know, I know,” grumbled Snowbone. “But I don't have to be happy about it, do I?” She stopped and looked at the map again.

“Where are we?” said Manu.

“Here,” said Snowbone. She traced a line across the parchment. “We have to cross this bit of open land, then pick up this track here. That will take us round the flank of the volcano and the way in is right there.”

“We're going
inside
the volcano?” said Blackeye. “Erm, haven't you forgotten something?” He rapped his knuckles on his arm.

“I know what you mean,” said Snowbone. “I said exactly the same thing to Skua when he showed me the route. Wood? Volcano? Fire? No! But he says the volcano is extinct. It's cold.”

“What happens when we get inside?” said Manu.

“We follow the track. There's only one, according to this bit of writing: ‘Follow the Solitary Way to the Cavern at the Core. To the Crusty Cave and the Tongue of Torbijn.’”

“Sounds easy enough,” said Manu.

“Hm. A bit
too
easy,” said Snowbone. She drank from her water bottle. “Let's go. The sooner we're there, the sooner we're back.”

They started across the scrubland. It was strewn with boulders and colonized by ferns. The ground was curiously bumpy, with endless dips and hollows, like a giant's pillow after a restless night.

“These bumps can't be natural,” said Blackeye. “They must be man-made.”

And Snowbone was just about to say
mines
when the ground gave way beneath their feet.

“Whooooa!”

They plummeted down in a thunderous shower of stones and earth and fern and rubble.

“Whooooa!”

And still they fell. Down, down, down the mine shaft into the black gaping yawn of the volcano while the light above faded fast. Down, down, down and—
doof!
—they fell no farther.

“Manu,” said Snowbone into the darkness, “are you all right?”

“Mmmmm,” groaned Manu. “The soil landed first. Cushioned the fall.”

Snowbone picked herself up. “You there, Blackeye?”

“Yep.”

Snowbone assumed he was still in one piece. She was. “Can you see anything?”

“No. But I think we're in a tunnel, and it seems brighter that way. Give me your hand.”

Snowbone wavered. Oh, how she hated touching people! Animals, yes. Boys, no.

“Come on,” urged Blackeye, anxious to be off.

Snowbone was glad it was dark; Blackeye couldn't see her face. Every fiber in her body was crying out against touching him, but she had no choice. She inched toward his voice and held out her hand. She felt his fingers brush against her arm. They tapped down its length until they found her hand. His fingers closed round her own. Tight. Solid. Unexpectedly reassuring. Her palm began to tingle. It was quite nice really.

“Manu,” said Blackeye, “find Snowbone's hand.”

And now Snowbone felt another set of fingers feeling for her. When they found her, there was no tingling, but they felt OK. Snowbone smiled in spite of herself.

Blackeye led them on. Lava had coursed along the tunnel once and now the adventurers stumbled through, their boots banging every bump and lump in the floor. But it was getting lighter. There was a pale, flickering amber glow and, when they reached the end of the tunnel, they found its source.

Lanterns! Ornate, golden lanterns, hundreds of them, with candles burning inside. The volcano was hollow but its sides were riddled with tunnels, just like the one they had come along. The lanterns were set into the walls between the tunnel mouths. They bathed the whole interior with an enchanting, golden fairy glow.

Snowbone wondered at it all. It was so organized. So clever. So well tended.

“Get back!” said Blackeye. He pulled her into the shadows. “They might see us.”

“Who?”

“I don't know,” said Blackeye, “but there's definitely someone here.”

“So much for the natives being long gone,” said Snowbone. “And so much for ‘Follow the Solitary Way.’ There are hundreds of tunnels in here. Oh, this stupid map!”

“No, wait,” said Manu. “There
is
only one way. One path. We're looking at it, see?” He pointed. “It comes in up there and spirals down. All the other tunnels lead off it.”

“Are we going to bother with the Tongue?” said Blackeye. “I just want to get out. We should do it now while there's no one around.”

“I agree,” said Snowbone. “I think the Tongue will be farther down, but we need to go
up
to get out.”

They started walking. As they climbed, they heard sounds coming from the tunnels. The
tink
—
tink
—
tink
of pickaxes; the scraping of shovels; the rumble of trucks; the muted voices of miners.

“It's so hot in here,” said Manu. His shirt was sticking to his back. “I can't believe this volcano is inactive. Skua's wrong.”

“Skua's a liar,” said Snowbone grimly. “I swear, when I see him again I'll—”

“Shhh!”
hissed Blackeye. “They'll hear us.”

Too late. The Finoans had heard them already. How could they not, when Snowbone's boots were scuffing the tunnel floor and Manu's breath was coming in gasps?

They heard, they watched, they waited. Then they pounced.

Granite-gray fingers grab-grab-grabbing! Poking, pulling, pushing, stabbing! The three friends were hauled into the air and carried like coffins, though with rather less dignity. They were bumped and bashed against the tunnel wall, bounced off the ceiling, squeezed and prodded until the tiddlins were chipped as chairs and Manu had bruises on his bruises.

As they were borne along, Snowbone suddenly realized: they were going down. Down the Solitary Way to the Cavern at the Core. To the Crusty Cave and the Tongue of Torbijn.

But then she saw something that made her forget the Tongue in an instant.

They were passing a cave and it was full of bones. Human bones, carelessly tossed into muddled piles.

That was why Skua hadn't tried for the Tongue himself. That was why he had sent Ashenpeakers to fetch it.

The Finoans were cannibals.

t
seemed to Snowbone that they were carried into the very belly of the earth. When they were finally set down, the heat was so overwhelming that Manu ripped off his shirt and threw it to the ground.

“I can hardly breathe!” he said. “It's like an oven in here!”

But the heat didn't bother Snowbone and Blackeye. They were far more interested in their captors. The Finoans were clearly human, but they were gray. Gray hair. Gray faces. Ragged gray clothing. Thin gray bodies, curiously stringy, like beans that have grown in too little light. Gray eyes: huge, round, owlish, with fat black pupils. And there were so many of them! Snowbone guessed there might be a hundred, but there were more coming out of tunnels: above, below, behind. They were standing in an enormous space, but it was rapidly filling.

“What do you want with us?” demanded Snowbone.

“We want nothing from you,” said a gray man, stepping forward. “But
he
is most welcome.” He nodded in the direction of Manu.

“You can't have him,” said Snowbone hotly. “No way.”

“What do you mean?” said Manu. “Snowbone? What do you mean?”

Snowbone said nothing. Manu stared at her. Despite the heat, he could feel a cold finger of fear caressing his spine. He turned to the gray man. “What are you going to do to me?”

“Nothing—until we have the blessing of the king.” The gray man turned to a boy by his side. “Fetch him!”

Instantly, the boy disappeared into the crowd, and the tiddlins didn't have to wait long before they heard the
boom— boom—boom
of drums reverberating through the volcano. Then there came a horn—a wild, unearthly sound like a terrified horse—and a strange red glow emanated from one of the tunnels. And then the royal procession entered the cavern, and the gray people fell as one to their knees.

First came the torchbearers, and the walls were a battleground of shadows, brutal and bloody in the unnatural red light of the flames. Next came the drummers, beating strange pyramidal drums, like upended volcanoes. Then came the horn player—a woman, with a terrifying headdress that looked like a mass of worms dangling down over her face. And then—
tiiish!
—to the clash of an unseen cymbal, four bare-chested men strode regally into the cavern. On their shoulders they carried a magnificent silver shield and sitting on top of it was the king.

Snowbone gasped. He was tiny. Tiny! No bigger than a five-year-old human. But surely he was older than that? The shield-bearers carefully lowered the shield and placed it upon a stone dais. Up close, Snowbone saw the king was ten, maybe eleven years old. And he wasn't gray: he was black. As black as Manu.