The Spindlers (23 page)

As the moribats came flapping through the tumbling-down tunnel, dodging old stones and stalactites shaken loose by the rolling, buckling ground, more nocturni rose up to meet them. They formed protective clouds around the soul-carriers and helped to beat the moribats away, so the air was filled with twisting black and white shapes, blurring together. Liza watched as a spinning cloud of black enveloped an attacking moribat; then the moribat was falling, lifeless, with a
thump
, and they were running past it.

Thump! Thump! Thump!
Nocturni, working together, began to take down the moribats one by one.

The tunnel widened, and opened into the cavernous room where Liza had met with the queen. This, too, had begun to collapse, and was filled with crumbling mounds of rock, enormous hills of shale and glittering quartz, and mist. There was no sign of the spindlers. They were gone.

The screams of the moribats, and the thumping of the dead, receded behind them—and still Liza saw colored shapes bobbing up and away, as the soul-bearing nocturni flew up into the swirling mist and darkness. She hoped they would make it safely Above.

A narrow tunnel was lit up with a greenish glow on Mirabella's right.

“Hang on!” the rat screamed, and veered sharply toward it at the last second, nearly sending Liza flying. Mirabella's claws screeched against the stone as they slipped and slid into the narrow space.

Is the rat sure about this?
Liza's nocturna panted out, and Liza could hear that it was tiring.

Liza folded Mirabella's large ear back toward her and spoke into it as though into a megaphone. “Are you sure this is the right way?” This tunnel was so narrow, Liza had to press herself nearly flat and keep her head ducked low to keep from bumping against the globe-encased lumpen suspended from the ceiling above her. Her nostrils were full of the musky smell of Mirabella's fur.

“The lumpen always show the correct path,” Mirabella panted back. Liza could feel the rat's muscles straining underneath her.

For a brief second, Liza allowed herself to wonder whether she ought to be trusting Mirabella. She thought of what the queen had said, that a rat is a rat, and nothing more, and nothing ever changed.

But no. Something
had
changed. Mirabella had come back for her; Mirabella had freed Patrick's soul.

And, in fact, the narrow tunnel appeared to be sloping gently upward, and from ahead came the unmistakable singsong voices of the River of Knowledge. And as the tunnel around them gave a terrible shudder, and large cracks began to form, weblike, along its sides and ceiling, Mirabella, Liza, and the two nocturni burst out onto the muddy banks of the river.

Liza slid off Mirabella's back as the rat collapsed, exhausted, onto its haunches.

“You did it!” she said, and once again wrapped Mirabella in a tight hug. The rat's whiskers tickled her neck. “You saved us!”

“Not so fast,” rasped a voice behind them.

Liza whirled around. The queen of the spindlers dropped clumsily to the ground from above the mouth of the tunnel, where she must have been waiting for them to emerge.

Two of her legs appeared to be broken, and she was coated with a thick black substance that looked like blood. She had not escaped the falling shards of rock unharmed. Still, she swelled herself to an enormous size, towering above Liza, Mirabella, and the two fluttering nocturni, casting them all in dark shadow.

“That soul belongs to me,” she gasped out, raising a trembling finger. “You will not take it from here. You will not escape; your soul, and his, will be my feed.”

The queen swayed, shut her crescent eyes, and then regained control. When she opened her eyes again, they were full of a black, burning hatred, and Liza was so scared she couldn't move, or breathe.

“Stay away from Miss Liza,” Mirabella said gallantly, puffing out her chest, although her voice cracked and squeaked with terror.

“Shut up, you useless creature.” The queen swatted at Mirabella almost absentmindedly with one of her enormous arms and sent the rat flying. Mirabella thumped to the ground with a groan and a whimper, twenty feet away. She tried to stand, then collapsed into the dirt again.

“You must let us go!” Liza cried, stuttering a little. “I passed through the rooms. I beat all your stupid tests. I won Patrick's soul back, fair and square.”

“Fair?” the queen parroted shrilly. Black venom dripped from her fangs. “Fair? You sniveling little idiot—nothing in the whole universe, either Above or Below, is ever fair.”

“But you said—,” Liza began. She was cut off by the queen's raucous, hoarse laughter.

“I know what I said.” The queen sneered at her.

“You lied to me.” Liza balled her fists. She could feel Patrick's nocturna hovering behind her, and Patrick's soul emitting a faint heat, and it made her feel brave.

“Are you so eager for the truth, then?” The queen swelled and swelled, towering, looming. “All right then, dearie. Here is the truth: Your souls belong to me, now and forever.”

At that moment, the queen sprang. At the same time there was a tremendous cracking—like a thousand thunderbolts sounding at once—and Liza closed her eyes and prepared to die. Strangely, in that moment, she was not even afraid. She heard a scream and a cascade of tumbling stone; she wondered for a confused second whether it was she who was screaming.

Perhaps I am already dead
, she thought.

Don't be ridiculous
, her nocturna spoke.
Of course you're not dead
.

Liza, surprised, opened her eyes. Where there had once been a tunnel opening there was now an enormous pile of stone and rubble, and the only sign of the queen was a single, twitching hand, which protruded from underneath the rock.

The tunnel had collapsed, burying the queen of the spindlers underneath it.

That was close
, Liza's nocturna said.

“I think,” Liza said, tearing her eyes from the sight of the fluttering fingers and the sharp nails, “I very much think it is time to go home now.”

From farther down the embankment, she heard a moan.

“Mirabella!” Liza cried. Mirabella was sitting up, rubbing her head. Liza ran to her, dropping to her knees in the black sand and gripping the rat tightly by the shoulders. “Are you all right?”

“No need to shout,” Mirabella groaned, although Liza was speaking at a perfectly normal volume. There was a large, circular bump forming just between her ears.

“Come on,” Liza said. “Let me help you up.” She stood and offered her hand to Mirabella: Palm to paw, she got her friend to her feet.

“Can you walk?” Liza asked. “Have you broken anything?”

Mirabella felt her ribs gingerly, then examined the length of her tail. She shook her head.

“You'd better lean on me, just in case,” Liza said.

So Mirabella slung one arm over Liza's shoulder, and Liza helped support her as they made their way slowly, painstakingly, out of the underworld: the rat, the girl, the two dark shapes of the nocturni, and a small soul glowing among them, giving them light.

L
iza woke to the sound of voices downstairs. She was in her own bed. Sunlight was streaming through the thin paper blinds that covered her windows. It was another beautiful spring day.

“Are you
sure
you couldn't have left them at work?” she heard her mother say, and she knew her father still had not found his glasses.

His glasses! Suddenly it all came flooding back: the spindlers, the journey to the underworld, the long and winding way back....

She sat up, and the room seemed to seesaw. There was the taste of sand in the back of her throat; she must have swallowed a half gallon of water when she had almost drowned in the River of Knowledge.

She stood up, testing herself on her feet. She examined herself for bruises. But no—everything looked fine. Even her clothes appeared undamaged, and very clean. She patted her pockets and felt her heart sink. Her father's glasses were gone. For a second she was horribly and bitterly disappointed, thinking that the whole thing—all of Below—had been a dream.

But no. It must be real. She remembered the end of the journey in bits and pieces—she remembered supporting Mirabella and then, at a certain point, growing tired herself. She remembered a large barge hung with lights, and her nocturna's voice saying,
It's okay, Liza. Go ahead and sleep. We'll take you up the river
.

She did not remember coming up from the basement. She did not know how long she had been away. And she did not know what had happened to Patrick's soul.

Quickly Liza went to the door and stepped out into the hallway. She could hear a clock ticking. She could hear no sounds of sobbing, no indication that her parents had spent sleepless nights waiting for her to return. Was it possible—was it remotely possible—that she had gone Below, and returned, in only a single night?

She crossed to Patrick's room and cracked open the door. He was sleeping on his side, in a tangle of sheets, snoring a little bit. A small puddle of drool had formed on his pillow, and Liza felt her heart soar.

She crept close to the bed, leaning over him. Yes. She was almost positive that he was back.

“Patrick,” she whispered, to be sure, and then said a little louder, shaking his shoulder, “Patrick.”

Patrick's eyes opened. He yawned widely and pawed his eyes with two balled-up fists.

“I'm hungry,” he said, and Liza felt a wave of joy break over her.

“We can have pancakes today. I'll make them,” Liza said.

He made a face. “Ew,” he said. “Your breath stinks.”

He was back. So it had not been a dream. It was real—every last bit of it.

“Get dressed,” Liza said, stepping away from the bed. “Today will be full of adventure.”

“Can we have pancakes first?”

“If you brush your hair,” Liza said, and Patrick grumbled a yes and slid out of bed.

Liza returned to her room, happier than she could ever remember being. She took out her jean shorts and a favorite T-shirt, then thought better of it and removed a yellow sundress from her closet. Today was a special day.

As she was stepping out of her pajama bottoms, she heard a quiet pinging sound, like sand running through an hourglass. A small pile of seeds of hope had been shaken out of her pocket and lay scattered across the floorboards. Once again, she was filled with a sense of joy.

Mirabella was real. The lumpen were real. The nocturni and the nids and the mole conductor were real, and so were the terrible things too—the Court of Stones and the spindlers and moribats and the live forest, and the River of Knowledge, both gorgeous and deadly.

Liza stooped down to collect the seeds of hope carefully. As she did, she caught a glimpse of something on her nightstand, half-hidden under the balled-up sock she had retrieved from Mirabella: her father's glasses! She must have removed them from her pocket before she crawled into bed. Her heart seemed to triple in size. She put the seeds of hope in the pocket of her sundress and took up her father's glasses.