by Ken Brosky
I followed them, glancing over my shoulder, hoping the hero had another trick up his sleeve. The giant was leaving a pretty obvious path, filled with snapped trees and smashed branches and glossy dark green pine needles whose snow cover had been brushed away.
“You’re going to love your new home,” Tom Thumb said. The giant crashed through the edge of the forest. “Hurry, now! Let’s put some distance between ourselves and that pesky human! He’ll never find us where we’re going. Do you have any idea how many caves exist in this land? Thousands! Oh, and I have the best one of all! You’ll love, I promise. It could use some enhancement, I’ll admit—a couch here, a bookcase there—but as far as caves go, it’s quite acceptable.”
The giant’s big toes dug into the frozen earth as he crawled his way up the massive hill at the edge of the forest. Refrigerator-sized clods of dirt and frozen grass were wrenched from the ground, leaving a handy trail for the hero should he not notice the golden dandruff crumbs Tom Thumb was leaving behind as well, not to mention the giant’s own trail.
The giant grunted a concerned grunt once he reached the top of the hill.
“Follow us? Bah!” Tom Thumb waved the worry away, scratching furiously at his hair. “Where we’re going, the hero cannot follow.” He laughed, tugging on the giant’s coarse ear hairs. “You see? You see how smart I am? Oh, you’ll not regret this, my friend. It’s not every day one of our kind outsmarts a hero!”
The giant grunted again.
“Down!” Tom Thumb ordered. “Down into this valley here! I can see our destination even now!”
We moved down into the next valley, which was wider and more colorful than where the giant’s brothers had met their end. In this valley, the trees were sparse, keeping their distance from a wide clear blue lake. Steam rose up in white clouds, catching a breeze and drifting out of the valley. Hot springs. We were on a fault line! On the near end of the shore, pine trees clung to the edge for warmth. On the far end, there was less steam rising. Waves that had lapped at the gravelly shoreline froze before they could retreat.
“Stay to the left, near that spattering of trees,” Tom Thumb ordered. “Not too close to the southern end or we are likely to fall right through the surface and boil alive. I’ve seen it! Well, not personally. But I have heard of it happening, and so we must be careful!”
The giant looked warily over his shoulder, then started down into the valley, slipping twice on the loose rocks on the hillside. Lower, I could feel the warmth from the hot springs. I could smell it, too.
Tom Thumb inhaled deeply through his nose. “Ah! Do you smell that, friend? The stench of sulfur, and no stench is so sweet. I hope you don’t mind it … our new home has the same smell.”
The giant grunted, lumbering across the valley with his slow-motion gait. I could see our destination now: a cave opening built into the far hillside, which looked as if it had once belonged underground. The surface was made of a glossy, jagged dark gray rock. No soil for grass or trees … just a piece of earth that had been forced upward millions of years ago.
“Inside now!” Tom Thumb exclaimed. “Hurry!”
The giant glanced once over his shoulder, then got on all fours and crawled into the opening. The cave was tight, and the giant’s bony elbows smashed into the glossy wall. His fat hips squeezed through the opening, eclipsing the light.
“Keep going!” Tom Thumb urged. “This cave opens up farther ahead. There’s a small hot spring, too. And a freshwater spring. Are you thirsty? No doubt, after such a harrowing morning. Hurry now!”
The giant crawled deeper into the cave, grunting and groaning, his forehead snapping a stalactite from the ceiling. The sound echoed like footsteps farther down the cave.
“Now, take your right foot and kick the rocks near the opening,” Tom Thumb instructed. “The other entrance to this cave is impossible to find, unless one happens to know about a certain fellow named Blaise Pascal.” He laughed, turning to watch the giant kick at the cave wall near the entrance. With the giant’s big feet blocking the sunlight from coming in, Tom Thumb was nothing more than a shadow with shimmering gold dandruff. He looked like a nasty little gremlin. “Yes! Give it a good kick! There it is!”
The cave rumbled. A boulder fell from the ceiling, nearly landing on the giant’s foot. More fell in front of the entrance, creating a chalky crashing sound amplified in the cavernous darkness, as if a hundred other entrances were being caved in at the same time.
The light from the entrance disappeared, replaced by pin-sized beams slipping between the boulders. Then those too disappeared as more jagged rocks came falling down.
Then: darkness. Black as pitch.
The sounds echoed a moment more, traveling deeper into the cavern.
“Just as I planned,” Tom Thumb whispered. “Ten years of careful, deliberate chiseling.” At first, I could see only his golden dandruff. Then he opened his mouth, revealing a neat row of glowing gold teeth. He was smiling.
The giant groaned.
“Oh no, my friend,” Tom Thumb said, his glowing teeth bouncing in the darkness as he spoke. “There is another way out, yes, but I’m afraid it is not big enough for a giant. You shall never escape this place.”
The golden smile returned. A slimy black tongue ran across the teeth.
“No, my friend. I have other plans for you.”
Chapter 7
Scarcely had they set foot on the threshold, when Tom called out, “Don’t bring me any more hay!” Then the parson himself was frightened; and thinking the cow was surely bewitched, told his man to kill her on the spot. So the cow was killed, and cut up; and the stomach, in which Tom lay, was thrown out upon a dunghill.[ii]
“Alice! Alice, wake up!”
I opened my eyes, gasping for breath. The sunlight streaming in through the window blinded me for a moment so I reached out, grabbing a handful of Rachel’s face.
“Glmph!” she mumbled, pushing my hand away from her mouth.
I sat up, blinking a few times. I could still smell the sulfur of the hot springs. My ears were ringing from the sound of the cave-in.
Jasmine and Margaret were staring at me.
“You really move around a lot in your sleep,” Jasmine said.
“Yeah,” Margaret said. “Like, we were thinking about maybe waking you? Because you kept tossing and turning? But then I just went back to bed.”
“Not me,” Rachel said, rubbing her eyes. “I had to slap you a few times to keep you from pushing me off the bed.”
There was a knock at the door. I got out of bed, immediately feeling the sharp ache in my ribs. I stretched, walking to the door and checking the peephole before opening it.
Mr. Whitmann put his hands on his hips. “Good morning to you, too. Get dressed. We’re walking into town.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s another fencing team in town, and we’re going to check them out. And if they seem nice, I’m going to ask for some practice space so you all can do a workout.”
“Can we go shopping this afternoon?” Margaret called out.
Mr. Whitmann rolled his eyes. “Be downstairs in ten minutes.”
The girls gasped in unison.
“OK, OK … fifteen minutes.”
Forty-five minutes later, we were walking down a street with a name none of us could pronounce. I’d dragged Seth along, afraid to leave him alone at the hotel even with Mrs. Satrapi there. I wasn’t worried about the same things Mrs. Satrapi worried about with a handful of eighteen-year-olds; I was worried about monsters with a hunger for human flesh. I was worried about Agnim’s terrible vision.
I see the death of your loved ones …
Everyone seemed in better spirits, including Chase, and with our group sticking close together I felt comfortable walking beside him. He looked up at me a few times, giving me a smile, and even here in the middle of a foreign town in a foreign land I couldn’t keep the warm feeling from spreading through my body.
Then I realized I was
returning the look. I glanced around, searching for a telltale trail of golden breadcrumbs. How many people were helping Tom Thumb? Who else might be here?
The boys stopped to marvel at an old antique store whose display window was full of ancient weapons, including a very amazing bow made of rough, dark brown wood and a taut string that was worn in the center where no doubt a fair share of arrows’ nocks had once rested. The boys might have stood there longer if not for the fact that only one of them—Chase—was wearing a winter hat and gloves. In fact, Chase had been the only one smart enough to pack a heavy winter coat at all. The rest wore light jackets, not bothering to check average temperatures for Eastern Europe. Typical boys.
We girls had it slightly better together, opting for stylish down jackets that kept us toasty warm and pairs of earmuffs provided by Jasmine (with a black pair for Rachel). The comfortable winter wear let us stand and stare at the colorful dresses on display in the dusty window of a store that seemed to be something of a secondhand everything place. The dresses hung from hangars next to a glossy cookware set, a pair of old clothing irons and an old hand-carved wooden chair.
“Totally sneaking in here to buy that red dress,” Margaret said. “Someone please remind me so I don’t space out and walk right by on the way back.”
The gymnasium was attached to a little school at the next block, away from the other houses with red roofs, surrounded by so many trees that I was kinda jealous. Our school was surrounded on three sides by a concrete parking lot. Our school also didn’t have plastic covering the windows.
“At least it’ll be warm inside,” Seth muttered, rubbing his red hands together.
Our moods went south the moment we went inside.
“Oh holy crap,” Seth said.
Chase licked his lips as his eyes narrowed and focused on two armored figures sparring underneath one of the gym’s basketball hoops. “For once, Seth, that sounds like an understatement.”
To say the three pairs of fencers were good would mean painting an entirely inaccurate picture. These fencers … they were stupendous. Frighteningly stupendous. All three pairs danced back and forth with the fluid grace of a professional dancer, their foils clanging together again and again, first up, then down, then up again. The sound of blades clanging echoed in the rafters above.
The fights looked choreographed. They were that good.
“We’re doomed,” Miguel whispered, wide-eyed.
The dozen Hungarian boys and girls were watching on the other side of the gym, along with a big, burly Mr. Whitmann look-alike who was about a foot shorter and had a much more pronounced belly. He called out something in Hungarian and the fencers stopped, setting their foils on the mats.
Please all be boys, I thought, pleeeeeeease all be boys.
They took off their helmets. Two boys. Four girls.
“Oh, we are so totally doomed,” Margaret whispered.
Mr. Whitmann went over to the other coach, introducing himself with a hearty American handshake. It caught the other coach off-guard, as if he hadn’t expected such a friendly greeting. They stood next to the blue practice mats, talking. The boys and girls from the other team stared at us. We stared back.
“They’re fluid,” Chase said. “That’s all.”
“That’s all?!” Scott asked, scoffing. “They’re demons, man! Did you see the way they were parrying those attacks? I don’t think I could even beat the girls, for crying out loud.”
“Hey!” I said.
He waved me away. “Not now, Wonder Woman. I’m too flustered to deal.”
“Uh … does anyone see, like, any defining physical features on them?” Jasmine asked.
We all looked. They’d lost interest in us, congregating next to a folding table that had a little yellow water cooler and paper cups. All six of the boys had shaggy dark brown hair, tiny jaws and pale skin. Two of them had a fair share of pimples. Two of the girls had red hair, while the other four had darker hair. All of them kept it short, pulled back behind their ears. One—a redhead—wore hers in a ponytail like I did. They were pretty, with smooth faces and soft noses and angular dark eyebrows. They were in shape, too.
Everyone in the team was in shape.
Like, really, really good shape.
“O. M. G,” Margaret said, mouth agape.
“They’re hulks,” said Miguel. “Dios Mio.”
“They spend more time lifting weights,” Chase said. His hands tightened around the metal push rings on his wheels. “Doesn’t mean anything.”
Seth appeared beside us, eating some strange cooked meat on a stick.
“What the heck is that?” Rachel asked, wrinkling her nose.
Seth shrugged. “Cooked meat. Who cares what it is?”
“Where did you get it?” she asked.
Seth pointed with the meat on a stick toward the doorway on the far end of the gym, beneath an old basketball hoop with a white backboard. “The cafeteria’s open. They’re doing some school play about Dracula or something.”
I grabbed him by the arm, moving him beside Chase. “You are not allowed to wander off. Got it?”
Seth mumbled a response, using his teeth to rip a piece of cooked meat off the stick. I had to admit, it smelled really, really good. Like seasoned pork.
“This is like our gym,” Miguel said, looking around. “Only with fewer bleachers, you know? And older basketball hoops.”
“Something tells me basketball isn’t their favorite sport,” Chase said.
He was right: the bleachers on either side of the basketball court only had about fifteen rows. Our gym had been built ten years prior with one simple understanding: the girls and boys basketball teams would be going to the state championships on a regular basis. So there were plenty of bleachers. A nice big, scoreboard.
This gym had a scoreboard, too. Only it was … different. One side had yellow lights and the other side had red lights, and each side had a Hungarian name lit up. Below each name was a number: 5 for Ambrus (yellow) and 3 for Kasza (red). Between the numbers was a clock with the time counting down. Under that scoreboard was a much older, traditional basketball scoreboard.
This wasn’t a gym that expected champion-caliber basketball players. This was a gym that expected champion-caliber fencers.
“Say what you will about them,” Rachel whispered to me, “at least they have cool names. Verrrrrry gothic-sounding.”
Mr. Whitmann walked back over to us in good spirits. “Great news! That’s the Hungarian team, all right. We’re going to do a little practice sparring with them.”
We all collectively groaned. Mr. Whitmann, taken aback, clapped his hands together a few times. “What, have you gone soft on me? Since when do my boys give up? Boys and girls, sorry. It doesn’t matter what you got between your legs, though! You’re my team, and my team doesn’t groan! We roar! Give me a roar!”
We very meekly obliged.
“That’s the spirit!” Mr. Whitmann said. “Alice, Miguel and Scott: suit up. Give em what for.”
I took a deep breath, my hand instinctively reaching for my fountain pen in my pocket. It would be an encumbrance underneath the tight fencing pants, but I couldn’t bring myself to part with it. This entire place made me uncomfortable. There were too many variables, as my science teacher would say. Too many things out of my control.
“Listen,” Chase said, wheeling beside me as I walked to the far end of the mats. “I don’t know what you’re feeling right now …”
“I’m just … it’s just not a good time to get into the whole PDA thing, OK?” I said.
He looked momentarily dazed before shaking his head. “I wasn’t talking about that. Well, maybe I was thinking it, but right now we’re in Battle Mode. And in Battle Mode, I’m just your coach.”
The words stung. Just your coach. “Chase, I …”
He waved it away. “Listen. They have good form.”
“That’s an understatement!”
“Just listen. Remember that fancy word I tau
ght you on the plane?”
“Balestra.”
He nodded, smiling. “Balestra. It’s French for sudden leap. Instead of stepping forward to attack, you’re going to make a sudden leap. It’ll keep your opponent from getting into her groove. Get it?”
“I think so.” I suited up, squeezing my hips into the slightly undersized pair of pants. The white chest plate and jacket were the opposite: too big, especially near the shoulders. Geez, I thought, what are the measurements of these girls? I was thankful for the oversized chest plate, though—I could keep the straps loose around my bruised ribs.
“Hey. Listen.” His face hardened. His eyes became glassy. “You’re an amazing fencer.”
I smiled.
“Balestra,” Chase said, wheeling back a bit to give the Hungarian team’s coach room.
I watched my opponent step onto the other side of the mat. It was the one with the ponytail: my doppelganger. She had a more balanced complexion than I did. Missing from her cheeks was the subtle rosiness that mine had, and I think I definitely had her beat in the “lips” department—hers were just a little too pale. She had a rounder nose and darker eyes, eyes that were full of competitive fury.
“OK,” I said, putting on my mask. The mesh faceguard was a little darker, making it a little more difficult to see through. The lights in the gym weren’t quite as bright as I was used to. The mat felt hard under my feet, not like the squishy mat we practiced with at Washington High. The equipment was better, too. The fabric of the jacket breathed better than our old donated ones we had back home.
The mat, the clothing … all of it was for a serious fencing team.
“Sok szereneset,” the girl said, putting her mask on. “Szukseged lesz ra.”
“I’m going to Google Translate that when I get back,” I told her in my most menacing voice. I took the foil from the Hungarian coach, giving him a thankful bow.
OK. Watch your stance. The mat is hard, so you can move quickly. Keep her from getting into a groove.
“Allez!” the coach cried out.
