by Ryan Calejo
Violet was shaking her head. “Wait. So he can actually speak?”
Joanna made an amused face. “¿Cómo no? To say basajauns are extremely intelligent would be like saying the sun is hot; you simply have to get used to their thick gallego accents.”
“Hold up,” I said. “You’re telling me that Bigfoot’s big brother is coming with us and you were worried about my claw attracting attention . . . ?”
“Basajauns are quite skilled at remaining inconspicuous,” the queen said. “None more so than those of the tribes of Gibraltar from whence Juan hails. How do you think they’ve gone so long without being properly photographed?”
She had a point there. “Gotcha.”
Another rumble—this one much stronger—shook the room. The fancy long-stemmed candles set along the walls in silver holders flickered. In another room, something fell to the ground and shattered.
Violet’s wide eyes found the queen’s. “What’s going on? Why does this keep happening?”
“It’s the chasm,” she replied. “We believe it may be disintegrating.”
“The chasm?”
“The invisible wall that separates the Land of the Living from that of the dead. Many believe that La Mano Peluda has found a way to erode it, that they’ve been working at it for eons. We are now beginning to feel its effects in this world.”
“What happens if the chasm is destroyed?” I asked hesitantly, not sure I really wanted to hear the answer.
“The pasillos between the two worlds would become unnecessary—our enemy could unleash a large-scale invasion anywhere on the planet, donde quieran.”
Yep, didn’t want to hear that. I thought about all the people who could be hurt—or worse—if an invasion of things like La Sihuanaba came pouring in from another dimension and felt my chest go numb as the leg the nahual had tongue-strangled.
“So, how are you going to stop that from happening?” Violet asked.
“We can’t,” Joanna replied matter-of-factly.
“You can’t? What do you mean, you can’t?”
“I mean, it is impossible. If the chasm is truly disintegrating, there is no power on earth that can repair it. Our only concern now must be in stopping La Mano Peluda.”
I shook my head. “And how are you going to do that?”
“Not I, mi niño, but you. See, La Mano Peluda’s army grows because of fear—the fear that they will soon rule both worlds and that all who oppose them will be forced to pay with their very souls. If you are indeed the Morphling, then you are living proof that the ancient scriptures are true, that there truly is one who can stand against them. The light of your coming will slow their recruiting and cause all of those who have joined their number out of fear to fall away. It will also cause many of our allies who have cowered in fear to once again take up arms.
“Sadly, mi niño, the fate of the living has been reduced to a mathematical proposition. If we can reduce the number of La Mano Peluda’s forces, we may yet stand the slimmest of chances. If we cannot, or they manage to convert La Sociedad de las Calacas—which would give them control over virtually every pasillo between the worlds, control that they do not yet possess—or if the chasm does indeed collapse, then their armies will sweep over the face of this world like a dark, unquenchable fire.”
Violet said, “So your plan is basically to . . . ?”
“Find the Morphling. Then do everything in our power to keep him or her alive.”
“I’m no math whiz or anything,” I said, “but that mathematical proposition thingy you just laid out? It doesn’t really sound like it’s in our favor. . . .”
“That’s because it’s not,” the witch queen replied simply.
I rubbed the center of my forehead. My brain had started to spin. There was so much to process. So many questions. So much pressure . . . “Do you really think I could be the Morphling?” I asked finally. “Like, for real?”
La bruja’s expression did not change. “That is what I intend to find out.”
“So, where’s this oracle?” Violet asked. “Is she nearby?”
“Actually, it’s a he—and he’s quite a ways from here. But fortunately, there’s brinco.”
I frowned, confused. “Jump? What is that?”
“A form of metaphysical travel. Hopefully neither of you has inner-ear issues.” Joanna turned to the huge desk in the middle of the room, brought a small silver dish from one of the drawers, and held it out to us. On it, fat slimy maggots wriggled and writhed. “Take. Eat.”
Eat? She had to be messing with us. “What the heck are those things?” I blurted out, feeling my stomach churn.
“Tequila worms. But don’t worry. They haven’t been soaked in alcohol. Y están bien frescas.”
Actually, their alcohol content and freshness was the least of my worries. “You don’t really expect us to put those things in our mouths, do you? I mean, they’re alive!”
The Witch Queen of Toledo wagged a long, jeweled finger at me. Her many rings glittered brightly in the candlelight. “Not just put them in your mouth, but eat them. And eat them quickly.” She dropped one into each of our palms. The nasty little things were cold as ice cubes and coated with a slimy film of mucus. Just the thought of chewing one up made me wanna blow chunks. “As I mentioned earlier, we haven’t much time.”
Violet didn’t hesitate. She tossed the ugly little sucker back like it was a gummy bear. The girl obviously didn’t have a gag reflex—like, none. That, or she might’ve been related to Andrew Zimmern. “Go ahead, Charlie,” she said in between crunchy (and gag-inducing) chews. “They’re actually not bad. . . . A little sweet, but not bad.”
Can’t believe I’m doing this, I thought, forcing my mouth to open. Then, before I could think better of it, I pinched my nose, tossed the slimy, squirming, disgustingly alive invertebrate down the old hatch—and, of course, instantly regretted it.
The flavor was like old shoe leather. Or spoiled nuts. And the texture was somehow even worse; it was basically like chewing wet sand.
I glared at Violet. “Not bad, huh . . . ?”
She giggled. “I thought you liked sweet.”
“It isn’t sweet,” I grumbled, which made her giggle even more. “You’re so gonna pay for this. . . .”
“Bueno, now, gather around, children,” Joanna said, motioning us closer. “And close your eyes so you don’t get nauseous.”
Yeah, a little late for that.
Then the Witch Queen of Toledo spoke a single word: “¡Vámonos!” And the ground seemed to slip out from beneath my feet.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I’m not sure what I expected brinco to be like, but it was probably the weirdest thing I’d ever experienced. In my entire life. And that was saying something. It felt as though we were flying . . . and at the same time falling somehow. Being stretched and simultaneously compacted. Pulled apart and squeezed. A gust of icy wind (I’m talking arctic cold) blew across my face, swirling my hair into a spiky mess as the world around us—or what I sensed as the world around us—began to wobble and bounce like a drunken top. My ears popped with the sudden change in pressure. My insides squirmed. I could feel that nasty little tequila worm trying to crawl its way back up my throat, and I had to swallow hard just to keep it down. Dark shapes and bursts of flickering green light began to whip across my closed eyelids, and then everything seemed to blur into a single dizzying stream of motion, and it felt like we were picking up even more speed, though I still couldn’t tell if we were traveling up or down, much less forward or backward. Instinctively, I wrapped my arms around Violet as she wrapped hers around me, and then, just when I was about to yell at Joanna to make it stop ( for the love of God, para ya!)—
Everything went still. Completely, absolutely, perfectly still.
When I opened my eyes again, we were standing in the middle of a large cobblestone square surrounded by low, red-roofed buildings. Narrow streets ran off in all directions. To our left was a manicured garden. To our
right, maybe fifty yards away, a massive cathedral rose out of the gray stones. With its old-school baroque facade and pointy steeples, it looked like something straight out of the Middle Ages.
“Where are we?” I asked, rubbing my eyes. Something about it all was vaguely familiar—the narrow streets, the gray cobblestones, the old-world architecture—but for several seconds I couldn’t put it together.; my head was still spinning a little.
Then it clicked.
“We’re in the Santiago de Compostela Cathedral square . . . ,” I said, turning to gape at the queen. “We’re in Spain! In Galicia—la tierra de meigas!” The land of witches!
Honestly, I expected her to have some pretty cool powers (you know, being a witch queen and all), but teleporting us across four thousand miles of open ocean in the blink of an eye? Now, that was seriously impressive.
“Muy bien,” Queen Joanna said, and grinned at me. She sounded impressed. “You’re certainly a very cultured boy. . . .”
As I looked around, my mouth dropped open in amazement. So many of my abuela’s stories had taken place right here—right in these very streets! Huge battles between warring basajaun tribes, a bloody showdown between a pack of Dips and a lobisomem (that’s a werewolf) who had become a priest—even an epic family throwdown between two insanely powerful sister witches that almost ended the world as we know it. According to an old legend, the Santiago de Compostela Cathedral had been built as a sort of outpost in the eleventh century, a forward operating base to support Spanish troops as they battled the clans of one-eyed giants called tartalos that were threatening to overrun Spain. Over the years I must’ve pictured myself running around this place, like, a zillion times. Fighting monsters. Brujas. But to actually be here? Smack-dab in the middle of all this history and myth? That was truly mind-blowing.
“Perhaps one day I’ll give both of you a tour,” Joanna said. “But today we must move quickly. El Tucano-yúa rules these skies. Plus, my sister can be anywhere.”
I frowned at her. “Your sister?”
“The black sheep of the family, you could say. In any event, it is not safe here.”
As if to make her point, darkness began to spread over the square like a heavy blanket. The wind suddenly picked up, and the temperature dropped almost ten degrees in the span of a few seconds. A heartbeat later, dozens of winged creatures appeared out of nowhere, hovering over the rooftops. They were small, maybe three feet tall, with bony arms and even bonier legs. They wore simple tunics made of dried leaves, animal skins, and scraps of tattered cloth. Their eyes were too big for their faces. Their heads were too big for their bodies. They sort of looked like shriveled old men. Only I knew what they really were and just how dangerous they could be.
“Acalicas,” the queen whispered, her expression darkening. “And of the Haunted Valley, no less.”
“I’ve never heard of that kind,” I admitted.
“That’s because few have ever seen one and even fewer have lived to tell the tale.”
Well, that was nice to know.
“Charlie, what are those things?” Violet asked, spinning to look at me.
“Weather fairies,” I explained. “Mean little suckers too.”
Beside me, Juan began to growl low in his throat. He pinned his large humanish ears back against the sides of his massive skull and bared his teeth in a terrifying snarl. Dude was obviously getting ready to rumble.
“Oye, hey, there’s no reason to get all worked up . . . ,” said a deep, melodic voice. Then a figure in a ridiculously oversize hat melted out of the shadows near the steps of the cathedral, and the breath caught in my throat. It was El Sombrerón! His silver guitarra glinted in a strip of pale moonlight, and the black metal spurs on his black leather boots clinked with his every step.
“That’s the guy I saw at my house!” I whispered to Violet. “That’s him!”
“I just wanna have a little chat with el niño,” said the legendary sombrero-wearing goblin, casually strumming his guitarra. “Le’s not make a big deal about it, okay?” His dark eyes peered out at me from beneath the impossibly broad rim of his black hat. “Oye, muchacho, why don’t you start walking, eh? I don’t got all day, you know. . . .”
“Sorry, señor,” the queen replied, stepping in front of me. “But el niño is busy at the moment. Perhaps some other time.”
“Oye, no, I don’t think so, lady. . . . Me and the kid gonna talk. And right now!” His nimble fingers danced across the strings of his guitar, and the sound they produced was utterly mesmerizing—a slow melody filled with sadness and longing.
I had time to think, Dang, this guy can play! And then the army of acalicas rose higher into the air, as if responding to the music, their leather wings blurring in the growing darkness as they began to chitter among themselves.
Suddenly the wind began to blow harder. Thunder rumbled. Above us, angry-looking clouds gathered and churned (they looked like a fleet of huge black warships gathering for battle), but the rest of the sky in every direction was completely clear. I didn’t need to be a meteorologist to know something was very wrong with this picture.
Joanna pointed to our left. “Go that way,” she said as leaves and bits of trash began to swirl above the cobblestones. “Use the side streets. Find another way into the cathedral. Go. ¡Dale!”
Violet and I nodded, then took off running with Juan leading the way, his mass of yellowish fur rippling like a golden waterfall. Around us, the wind whipped and howled, and huge bolts of lightning exploded overhead, sizzling through the sky. The clouds broke. Rain began to pour down, fat, slow drops at first, then getting fatter and faster until they pounded down from the sky like millions of angry little liquid fists. My shirt instantly stuck to my skin. My sneakers squished like soaked sponges. Muddy puddles had formed everywhere, and the cobbles, worn smooth by centuries of foot traffic, had become dangerously slick. My feet kept slipping and sliding all over the place, and I nearly ate it, like, five different times. Once, Juan grabbed my arm just before I cracked my head on the edge of one of the benches scattered everywhere. I would’ve thanked him, but there wasn’t any time.
“DEETH WAY!” the basajaun roared.
We dashed into the narrow side street lined with shops. Tables and chairs crowded us on both sides. Dim display windows blurred by. Above us, along the pointy ledges of the roofs, I caught glimpses of dark shapes flitting in and out of view. I hoped it was just a bunch of curious pigeons, but then lightning flashed, turning the world white, and my worst fear was confirmed—acalicas. Dozens of them. Racing along the rooftops, spinning and whirling and twirling in some sort of festive-looking rain dance. Their bright pale eyes stared down at us; mischievous smirks twisted their tiny lipless mouths.
“¡Ahí!” I shouted, pointing wildly. “Up there! A bunch of them on the roof!”
Juan heard me loud and clear. He dug a pickax out of his bushy beard and flung it at the edge of the roof like a Frisbee. It exploded through the concrete like a bomb, sending a handful of weather fairies flying. Their itty-bitty bodies spun end over end as they hurtled, screaming and flailing, into the swirling sky.
Abruptly, the rain slowed to a drizzle. The wind stopped. Even the sky seemed to lighten a bit.
“Nice shot!” Violet yelled. “That’ll show them!”
Only it didn’t. The storm picked back up just as suddenly as it had died down and with even more ferocity this time. An icy gust of wind howled down from the sky and tore through the alleyway, tugging viciously at our clothes, pulling at our hair, and making my eyes water. Violet’s gown billowed out behind her like a sail. Debris began pelting us from every direction, and anything that weighed less than a couple of pounds went flying.
As we neared the end of the street, the wind picked up even more, blowing hard enough to rattle the windows of the little shops. Banners began to rip. Signboards advertising yesterday’s specials were caught up in swirling drafts. A huge wooden table rolled past me as if guided by an invisible hand and cras
hed through a café’s front window, spraying glass everywhere. And even though Juan shielded us with his massive body as we dashed past, I still felt a blast of shards against my legs and sneakers.
“FASTHUR!” he roared, urging us on.
Up ahead, the narrow cobblestone path veered right, and we followed it, our feet scrabbling for traction on the wet stone. My heart was a runaway train in my chest. My throat burned. My sides ached. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep going like this—my lungs felt like they were on the verge of bursting—but I didn’t stop.
We came out in a wide backstreet, flanked by old brick buildings. The one to our left had small balconies with wrought-iron rails; a couple of the rails had been partially ripped out of the walls and now dangled at the mercy of the raging winds. One suddenly came free as I ran underneath it, torn off the wall by a sudden gust.
I didn’t have time to avoid it. The railing would’ve split me in two if the basajaun hadn’t swatted it away with the back of one enormous fist. There was a squeal of metal as the railing met Juan’s knuckles and then a deafening clatter as it crashed to the ground somewhere behind us. Juan, meanwhile, didn’t even flinch. Guy was unbelievable!
“Those things are everywhere!” Violet shouted, looking up at the buildings, her eyes huge and full of panic. “What are we gonna do?”
“Just keep running!” I shouted as we pounded down a short set of concrete steps. “We’re almost there!”
Thunder crashed and forks of blue lightning crackled across the sky. I could feel the buzzing tingle of electricity as it skipped over my skin like a thousand tiny tentacles. The rain turned to hail. The pebble-size hunks of ice stung our arms and ricocheted off the sides of the buildings, sending bits of icy shrapnel whizzing by our faces. They slashed at us as we dashed between a couple of newer buildings and spilled out into another plaza, this one larger and wider than the last.
