by Colin Meloy
Clearly, her dad intended this to be a heartwarming moment, but it was lost on Prue. She was feeling fairly disturbed.
Her father clocked her response with a sorry grimace before he went on, saying, “So that was it. You were born. And there never were two people more happy than your mom and I. We were over the moon. You were the sweetest baby anyone could’ve imagined. And we never for a moment thought we’d have another kid—we’d been through hell and back to have one, after all—we were done. Single-kid family. That was us. Besides, as your mom and I got older, we figured it would be just impossible. Then, out of nowhere, some eleven years after you were born, your mom gets pregnant again. Out of nowhere. No way we saw that coming. Well, we figured that it had been long enough and that woman we met on the bridge had probably forgotten about the whole thing, so we went through with it. And that was Macky.”
He sniffled a little, his eyes downcast. “So that’s it. We brought this on ourselves.” said her father. “That woman came back for her side of the deal.”
There was silence in the kitchen. Outside, the rain had stopped, and a soft breeze rustled the oak branches in the backyard.
“Prue?” her dad asked after she’d sat silent for a few moments. “Are you going to say anything?”
Footsteps in the entryway alerted Prue to the presence of her mother. She had just arrived at the door to the kitchen. She padded over to Prue and rested her hands on her shoulders. “Hi, babe,” she whispered. “We’re so sorry. We don’t blame you at all; there’s nothing you could’ve done. It was our mistake. Our stupid mistake.”
Prue’s father nodded. “You see, Mac never really belonged to us. As terrible as that sounds—it’s all clear now. But if not for that woman, this Dowager Governess, we’d never have been a family. We’d never have had you.” He looked directly into Prue’s eyes, tears welling up at the lip of his lower lashes. He reached out his hands and grabbed Prue’s and squeezed them.
Prue stared back at her father. Her hands didn’t move. Her mother’s fingers burrowed into her shoulder muscles. Prue’s ankle pulsed with a quiet pain. Her mind fumed.
“I’m going back,” she said.
Her father’s eyes widened. His mouth slackened. “What?”
Prue gave a quick shake of her head, as if loosening herself from a dream. “Back. I’m going back.” In a decisive motion, she freed her hands from her father’s and picked up the black box on the table. She scooped the rune stones back into their container and snapped the lid shut. “I’ll be taking these,” she said. Her mother’s hands had dropped from her shoulders, and Prue scooted the chair back from the table. Standing, she briefly tested the strength of her ankle and, feeling less pain than she’d had since the accident, walked out of the kitchen.
“Wait!” shouted her mother, finally. Prue paid her no mind. She was already at the stairs and climbing, her mind quickly itemizing everything she’d need to do before leaving.
“Don’t be rash!” came her father’s voice from the bottom of the stairs. “Think this through. It’s not safe!”
Prue was in her room, attempting a superhero-like quick change into her clothes. She shoved the box of runes into the midsection of the hoodie’s pocket. The stones clattered from within. She knew that the Governess’s coyotes would be guarding the Railroad Bridge; she’d have to call this Ghost Bridge. It was the only way to cross the river. She turned to see her parents at her door.
“Think about this, Prue,” said her mother, desperate. “This is bigger than you. You’re only going to get hurt!”
“Listen to your mother,” said her father sternly.
Prue stopped briefly and looked from one parent to the other. Their faces were full of concern. “No, I won’t,” she said. She squeezed between them and began walking back down the stairs. They were frozen at the top. She heard their furtive whispers. “Do something!” came one. “I’m trying!” came another.
She’d barely set foot in the kitchen when she heard her parents stomping down the stairs after her. Her father’s voice boomed from the entryway. “Prue, as your dad, I’m telling you to stop. You are not, I repeat, not going back into those woods.”
She felt his strong fingers grasp her upper arm, and she was jerked backward.
A stunned silence followed as Prue and her father stared at each other; he’d never acted so forcefully with her before. The color had drained from his cheeks. Screwing up her courage, she shook her arm free and faced down her parents.
“Don’t,” she said, glowering. “Don’t you dare tell me what I can or can’t do. Not now. Not after what you’ve done.”
Her father’s face was drawn. He began to stammer an apology, but Prue angrily waved his words away.
“Listen, I love you both,” Prue continued. “So, so much. I should be hating your guts right now, but I’m not. I don’t.” The anger she was feeling gave way to a kind of bewildered pity for the two adults as they stood, speechless, in the entryway. They suddenly looked to Prue like two confused and terrified children. “But you really screwed this up, didn’t you? I mean, what were you thinking?”
Finally, her father spoke up. “Let me go,” he said. “It’s my fault. I’m the one responsible here. Just tell me where to go. I’ll get him back.”
Prue rolled her eyes, exasperated. “Wish you could,” she said. “I would totally make you go. But you can’t. Long story, but I think I’m able to go in there when other people can’t. Something about a Periphery magic. Whatever. Besides”—she looked back and forth between her parents—“I figure I have Mac to thank for my even being alive. If it weren’t for him, I’d’ve never been born, huh?
“I’m going to go get my brother back,” continued Prue, her voice now loud and commanding. “And that’s that.”
She turned and walked briskly through the kitchen and out into the backyard, where her derelict bicycle stood, resting limply on its kickstand. Reaching under the porch, she found her father’s red metal toolbox and began combing through it. She could hear her mother crying, faintly, from inside the house. Her fingers finally came upon the crescent wrench, and she set about removing the misshapen front wheel of her bike.
She jostled the tire loose from the fork, and reached for one of her old bike wheels; she’d had the rims replaced last spring in anticipation of a busy summer of bike riding, though her old ones were still decent enough to warrant saving. She was thankful for this bit of foresight as she pulled it out, dusted it off, and began threading her bike’s front fork dropout over the threads of the wheel hub. Within minutes, the bike was back in riding shape.
Her father appeared at the back door, his body casting a shadow from the porch light across the lawn. Prue squinted up at him, a dark silhouette against the doorway.
“Don’t do this, Prue,” said her father. His voice was weak, tired. “We can be happy, the three of us.”
“Bye, Dad,” she replied. “Wish me luck.” She climbed aboard her bike and pedaled out into the street.
CHAPTER 19
Escape!
Now, you’re sure about this, yeah?” asked Septimus, eyeing the twisted rope warily. It was already half-chewed; only part of the rope remained.
“Yes!” hissed Curtis impatiently. “Just do it. And quick! We don’t know how much time we have before the warden comes back.”
“I’ve got a hold, rat, don’t worry,” said Seamus. He spoke with some difficulty, as he was belly-down on his cage floor, his arms uncomfortably extended out between the bars, his hands gripped around the upper bars of Curtis’s cage. It had taken some time getting into this position, but after a few minutes of hardy swinging, the cage had come within Seamus’s grasp, and now his fingers were locked tight around the knotty wood of the bars.
Septimus cast a glance over at Seamus before shrugging an okay, and in a flash he was at the rope, busily gnawing at the remaining material. Curtis stood, his legs spread, bracing himself against the bars of the cage. He intently watched the rat at work.
Septimus stopped and, leaning away, eyed what was left of the rope. “Not much,” he said. “Frankly, I don’t see why it hasn’t—”
He was interrupted when the rope broke with a low, almost polite snap and the cage was loosed from its mooring, leaving the rat dangling from the nub that remained attached to the root tendril. Curtis gasped as he felt the cage swing into a free fall. The floor seemed to wheel upward, the stones and the bones calling for his blood—when, with a jerk, his downward motion was stopped short and an agonized moan issued from Seamus’s cage. Curtis looked up; Seamus’s fists were still snarled around the bars of the cage, his knuckles white from the pressure.
“OOOOOF!” grunted Seamus loudly. “This ain’t as easy as it looks!” He worked his fingers over the wood of the bars, searching for a better grip.
“Hold tight, Seamus,” instructed Curtis. “Now, if you can just start making your way to the rope.”
Seamus began moving his grip, one hand over the other, toward the joint where the rope met the cage. The cage gave little quakes with Seamus’s every movement, and it was all Curtis could do to keep himself from eyeing the bone-strewn cavern floor. Finally, Seamus arrived at the eyebolt where the rope was fastened and, with a quick heave, let go of the cage bars and grabbed the rope, giving a groan again when the weight of the cage tightened the slack.
The groan twisted into a laugh, however, as Seamus rasped, “Ha! Think I’d let ye fall, kid?”
Curtis, his heart rate beating a frantic tap dance in his ears, tried on a nonchalant laugh and found it did not fit him at the moment. His voice broke at the first chortle.
Seamus grew serious, his face beet red. “Okay, so off to Angus?” he asked.
Curtis nodded.
Seamus puffed up his red cheeks into blowfish proportions and began swinging Curtis’s cage by the nearly ten-foot length of rope remaining. Curtis’s stomach dropped out with every swell as the arc of the swing started small and grew. At the crest of every upswing he could see Angus, some five feet above him, belly-down on his cage floor, his arms extended to catch.
“And . . . NOW!” shouted Curtis.
Seamus gave a bellowing cry as he heaved the cage airborne and Curtis, aboard this flying vessel, was thrown toward the waiting hands of Angus.
Angus, his eyes bulging, threw his arms forward, his hand grasping at the bars of the cage.
First grasp: missed.
Second grasp: missed.
In this moment, every fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a second felt like it lasted minutes, hours, eternities.
Third grasp: both hands extended, flailing for the cage, and Curtis’s free fall was stopped with a sudden jerk as Angus’s hands gripped at the rope.
Angus let out a heroic sigh of relief. It sounded like an ocean breaking a flood wall.
“Oh. My. God,” intoned Curtis.
Seamus laughed from behind them. “Your god’s got nothin’ to do with it! Them’s a bandit’s nimble fingers! Nice catch there, Angus!”
Angus was silent. His eyes were closed. “I think I may’ve wet meself,” he whispered.
Curtis allowed himself now to look down at the cavern floor. There was easily a fifty-foot drop remaining. A pile of rocks topped by a particularly jagged-looking boulder lay directly underneath his cage. He looked over at the ladder leaning against the wall. He hadn’t been much of a hand at physics—at least the introductory chapter they’d studied in the last week of sixth-grade life science—but if his estimates held true, if Angus was able to swing Curtis’s cage to its highest arc and get his own cage swinging as well, Curtis would be able to make the leap to the ladder.
“And then I’ll just climb down,” he said aloud.
“What’s that?” asked Angus, his voice straining as he concentrated on his hands’ tight grip of the rope. He’d managed to get the end looped once around his wrist—it looked to be a solid hold.
“I said I’ll just climb down the ladder,” said Curtis. “Once I’ve jumped to it.” He looked up at Angus. “But you’ve got to swing me as high as you can—and get your own cage swinging too.”
“That’s goin’ to be the easiest part, boyo,” Angus said, smiling. “As for you, ye’ve got a bit of a jump there.”
Curtis nodded seriously. “Okay,” he said. “Here goes nothing.” Using Septimus’s keys, he began testing each one in turn in the lock of his cage door. A long silver skeleton key turned out to be the one; it undid the bolt with a dull metallic click, and Curtis was able to swing the door open. The ground swayed far below him; was that a skull dashed on those jagged rocks? He closed his eyes to the sight and focused on the task at hand. He secured himself in the now-open doorway, the balls of his feet positioned on the cage floor edge, his hands gripped to the outside bars.
“Okay,” he instructed.
Angus took a deep breath above him, and with a grunt began swinging Curtis’s cage. It moved in small, quick arcs at first but soon began gathering speed and swing. Angus’s cage began swinging as well, and soon the two cages were a long, articulated pendulum, sailing through the air of the domed cavern. Curtis judged the distance to the ladder with each upswing.
“A little higher, Angus!” he shouted.
“Aye!” responded Angus, his sinewy arms flexing with each arc. After a few more swings, Angus reported, “Think that’s as high as you’re goin’!”
Curtis looked at the ladder as he swung toward it. It was a little farther away than he’d hoped, but no matter.
“Okay, Angus,” he shouted. “When I say ‘go,’ I want you to toss the cage with all your strength.”
“Got it,” said Angus.
Eamon, several cages away, offered this encouragement: “’Tis like the hammer-toss, Angus—you’ve done it a hundred times!”
“Aye, but I never done the hammer-toss lyin’ flat on me belly!” He waited for his command.
“Okay . . . GO!” shouted Curtis, and in a flash, the cage was airborne. He waited until it had reached its highest point—it happened in the blink of an eye—and with a heave, he pushed away from the cage, his arms and legs vaulting him from the open doorway. Before he knew it, he’d cleared the distance and his hands were scrambling to find a grip on the top rungs of the ladder. His body slammed against the rough wood, and his left foot landed squarely on the sixth rung from the top. He was about to holler a report of success when he suddenly felt gravity shift under his weight, and the top of the ladder began to pull away from the cavern wall.
“OH, OH, OH!” he shouted as the ladder, all sixty rickety feet of it, began tipping backward.
“Oh boy,” said one of the bandits flatly.
Time moved comically slow as the top of the ladder, with Curtis affixed, fell away from the wall. It balanced momentarily as it came perfectly perpendicular to the floor and then began its quick descent backward.
The floor sped toward Curtis.
The scattered bones on the cavern floor seemed to cheer what would be the newest addition to the collection.
But then the ladder stopped. Suddenly, violently. Curtis was now upside down, his back facing the ground below, his left arm desperately linked to one of the ladder rungs. His left leg was wrapped over another, the wood biting into the crook of his bent knee. His eyes were tightly closed.
He heard a swell of laughter from the bandits: throaty, relieved laughter.
He opened his eyes to see that the ladder had landed squarely against Angus’s cage, the metal hooks extending from its top rungs conveniently hooked into the bars of the bandit’s cage door.
“Well, that’ll do, boyo!” shouted Angus between snorts of laughter.
Curtis breathed deeply. “That’s . . .” His voice cracked. “That’s what I meant to do.”
A sheen of water remained on the top of the pavement, and Prue’s bike tires hissed over the slick black surface. The red Radio Flyer wagon bounced noisily behind her.
The do
wntown of St. Johns seemed abandoned in this early morning quiet. A haze of dimmest blue tinted the sky. A few dogs howled in welcome to the new day. A single car waited helplessly at a dormant traffic light; even in this otherworldly hour, the rules of the day applied. A figure huddled at the bus stop in the center square was a faceless pile of parka and knitted cap.
Prue turned the corner at the old clock and headed toward the river. The street ended at a sudden cul-de-sac; a line of cement bollards provided a barrier between the pavement and an unkempt field of raspberry brambles and yellow-trumpeted Scotch broom. Here, she dismounted her bike and walked it over the curb, past the barrier, and into the field of weeds. The river was a low rush of noise ahead of her, past where the ground sloped away to arrive at the lip of the bluffs.
She hadn’t gone far, however, before she came to a small clearing in the weeds. In the midst of this clearing lay a large slate-gray slab of stone, just as her father had described. Mere feet beyond the slab was the steep embankment of the bluff; here the earth fell away to the grassy bank of the river far below. A thick pall of fog had settled over the river valley, obscuring it entirely. Prue carefully laid her bike amid a crop of knapweed and walked to the stone. Kneeling down, she pulled the little box from her hoodie pocket.
Opening the lid of the box, she stared at the contents, at the six multihued pebbles and the strange inscriptions etched into their smooth faces. “Uh,” she whispered to no one in particular, “I’m not sure if I’m supposed to say anything, but . . .” She emptied the pebbles on to the stone, watching them clatter and roll against the cold, hard surface. “Abracadabra? Open sesame?”
The pebbles wheeled and spun on the stone until they each found a resting place, the alien sigils faceup in a curious pattern. Prue caught her breath and waited. A sudden breeze tousled the surrounding thicket of weeds.
