The rock wall reached higher. Whistler turned away, and something freezing wrapped around Ottilie’s legs. For a second she thought it was just Whistler’s emotions chilling the air, but something trickled down her boot – damp, ice cold … From nowhere, water had begun to pool.
27
Light
Her thoughts were falling debris. Whistler had gone above. Gully was up there. Water covered her boots. Her hands were bound. Ned was going to drown!
With darting eyes, she scanned the space. There was a narrow ledge up on the wall. If she could just get him up there … but she had no way to try. Ottilie shuffled across the floor. Kneeling, she roughly manoeuvred his head and shoulders up onto her knees. The water smoothed over his legs.
It was like freshly thawed ice. Her only hope was that shock might wake him. Water wrapped around her knees, reaching up to Ned’s ears. She gritted her teeth and jerked her legs out from under him.
Ned splashed backwards into the water, his entire head submerged. The water smoothed, his face blurred beneath the surface, and for a horrible moment she thought she had drowned him. But then he lurched upwards, coughing violently. Ottilie was so relieved that, had her arms been free, she would have thrown them around him.
Panting, his chest heaved as he managed to rasp, ‘What happened?’
‘She locked us in and flooded the place.’ Ottilie pointed to the rebuilt wall.
Ned scrambled to his feet, still gasping for air. ‘But … where’s the water coming from?’
‘Nowhere,’ she said, hopelessly. ‘Everywhere.’
Ned rushed to the wall and pressed his palm against it over and over.
Nothing happened.
He swore and turned back to Ottilie. The water was nearly at his knees. He hurried over and pulled at the roots still binding her wrists. ‘Can you swim?’
Ottilie nodded. She and Gully used to swim in the clear creek above the Brakkerswamp. It had been a long time, but she was sure she would remember how. ‘Can you?’
‘Sunken Sweep,’ he said, as if that were answer enough.
What good was it, though? The water would get above their heads and they would have to swim, but it would not be long before it reached the ceiling.
Ned struggled and struggled with the roots binding Ottilie’s arms, and finally one strand snapped. The roots unravelled and her hands were free.
‘We have to find a way out,’ she said, flexing and bending her hands. Her wrists stung where the roots had rubbed away skin.
They waded back and forth, searching for any crack or cleft. Some of Whistler’s embers were still alight, but they were slowly drifting down and drowning one by one. Some lights shone beneath the surface like a blurry, upside down sky. It was getting harder and harder to see.
She couldn’t stop worrying about what had happened to Gully. She had abandoned him to Whistler. But she couldn’t have left Ned unconscious.
The water was up to her shoulders. It was freezing. Her skin sucked inward and her whole body burned. Before long, she could think of nothing but getting out of the icy water. She swam to the ledge and pulled herself up so that just her knees were covered.
Ned followed and Ottilie helped him up. They stood out of the water, arms wrapped tightly around their middles, shivering side by side.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Ned. Ottilie could hear the chill in his voice, as if icicles dripped from every word. ‘I should have tried to stop the dreams.’
Ottilie shook her head and unstuck her cold-clenched jaw. ‘There was no way to stop them. This is my fault,’ she whispered. ‘I should have got rid of that bone necklace. That’s how she knew we were here. Our plan might have worked if I hadn’t given us away.’
She hugged herself so tightly she might have cracked a rib, only she was too cold to feel it. She knew they would be warmer if they huddled together. Ottilie rocked on her feet, but found that, even now, she was too nervous to try it.
Ned was shaking his head. ‘None of it matters.’
He stared down at the coffin. The solid iron seemed to sway beneath the water, as if it wasn’t really there at all, just a memory or a dream. Everything felt that way now – unreal.
‘What was that pipe?’ said Ned. ‘What does she want it for?’
‘I don’t know.’
This was what Whistler had been waiting for. They would know her plans soon enough.
Even if they managed to escape and reach the Narroway, they might plunge headfirst into a war. It should have been the only thing Ottilie was worrying about. And yet, as she stared at that swaying coffin, her mind kept floating back and forth over the same thought – the keeper was her father … the keeper … she knew who her father was … the keeper … all that time …
It was easier, she supposed, than thinking about what might have happened to Gully and her friends. Easier than worrying about what Whistler was going to do with the pipe, where the sleepless witch really was, or whether or not the white stone had swallowed Scoot whole.
The keeper, who had never even spoken two words to her directly, who put Gully’s name on the pickings list …
The water rose higher and higher. It reached Ottilie’s waist. Her voice shook as she said, ‘I don’t know how we’re going to get out of here.’
Ned didn’t seem to know what to say. Instead, he stepped close and put his arm around her shoulders. Neither could meet the other’s eye. Ottilie leaned in to the warmth, but she wasn’t sure where her arms should go, or how to stand, or even breathe. But she didn’t want to move.
The water rose until her shoulders were just above the surface. There was a higher ledge, much further up. She pulled away from Ned and began running her fingers over the wall, trying to find a way to climb it. There was nothing. They would have to wait until the water lifted them.
Ned found her hand underwater and entwined their fingers. Ottilie remembered the first time he had taken her hand, and how her heart had sunk when he released it. The embers were dying all around them. She could hardly see more than a dark outline of his face.
He must have been thinking the same thing, because his thumb brushed across the tip of her nose, like he was trying to remember how she looked, and for the space of a blink, Ottilie didn’t care that she was freezing and terrified and in the dark.
It was the water lifting to cradle the very base of her skull that snapped her back to reality.
Fear pressed down and she shuddered beneath the pressure. Her feet lifted off the ledge. She couldn’t stand any longer without her nose below the waterline. Above, the last of the embers were like dying stars winking out at the end of time. Darkness swelled. She would float up and up until she was taken by the sky.
Ned reached out and held her up. He was tall enough that he could still stand, and for a moment he tethered her to the world and she felt grounded again.
Over his shoulder, Ottilie noticed something: a tiny ember disappearing into the rock wall.
‘What?’ Ned turned to look.
‘I think there’s a gap up there.’ She pointed. ‘A light went through.’
‘Are you sure it didn’t just hit the wall and go out?’ Despite his words, his voice was hopeful.
‘I need to get higher to see.’
Ottilie climbed onto his shoulders and what she saw made her heart leap. The ember had slipped in behind a rock, illuminating its edges. ‘I think there’s an opening! We just need to move some rocks.’
She had to leap from Ned’s shoulders to reach the ledge above. Dangling from the edge, her muscles pulling so tight they threatened to snap, she managed to clamber onto the jutting rock.
She looked down. There was no way for Ned to get up. She began shifting the rocks herself. It was so dark that she had to do a lot of it by feel. Her fingers were nearly numb. It was like working through six pairs of gloves, yet somehow every scrape still burned and throbbed.
It was slow but, piece by piece, an opening formed.
Below her, the water w
as rising. Ned was treading water, and finally he was high enough that she could pull him up. She heard his teeth chattering as they shifted the last of the rocks. The ember was still hovering there, just bright enough to illuminate the engraving of a duck on an ancient triangular door.
Ottilie managed a shaky laugh. Whistler didn’t know everything! She hadn’t known there was a second entrance to the tomb. There was no latch, only an old wheel. Ned and Ottilie pushed as hard as they could until finally, with a great scrape, it began to turn. The door pressed inwards, revealing a tunnel beyond.
They crawled through. The water had already reached the ledge and was beginning to spill into the tunnel. Together they pushed with all their might and shut the door behind them.
‘We need to move,’ said Ottilie. ‘If that tomb keeps filling up I don’t know how long the door can hold the water back.’
‘We can’t go too fast,’ said Ned, and Ottilie sensed him feeling his way around the tunnel. ‘We’ll hit our heads.’
It was pitch black. They had no glow sticks, none of Whistler’s embers. Nothing. But they were free.
‘Come on,’ said Ottilie. ‘Let’s go.’
28
Glow
The journey was slow. Ottilie’s throat felt like it was lined with bark. She wished she’d thought to gulp down some of the water that had nearly swallowed them up. The door seemed to be holding fast, and she could only assume Whistler’s spell had ended – perhaps when the water reached the ceiling of the tomb, or when there were no longer any beating hearts inside.
All she could think about was what had happened when Whistler went back up. Would she have left Gully alive? And the others? What had become of them all? Leo had never signalled. Maeve had never come. There had to be a reason.
Ottilie felt as if someone was scrunching her heart like a damp ball of cloth, because she knew the truth. If Whistler had intended to kill her and Ned, why would she leave the others alive?
She took a great gasp of air and focused on her feet. One foot after the other. Aside from the fact they were climbing upward, she did not know where they were headed. She was just getting the horrible feeling that they had not travelled far at all when a faint light appeared ahead. She froze, wary of company, then edged forwards and saw a trail of pale fungi emitting a silvery glow.
‘What is that?’ said Ned, reaching towards it in awe.
She searched for the word. ‘Lumi.’ The glowing fungi. ‘It’s really rare, and so valuable! There were rumours that there was some in the tunnels around the Swamp Hollows. Gully and I used to hunt for it, but we never found any!’
Ottilie couldn’t believe her eyes. There was an absolute abundance. The lumi lined the tunnel walls for what might have been miles, lighting the way around low-hanging rocks, narrow crevices and tight bends, until finally it grew sparse and the trail stopped.
They both scraped some off the walls and held it aloft. It wasn’t slimy like she had imagined, but spongy and smooth. Removed from its roots, the glow dimmed a little, but they could still see where to step.
The tunnel narrowed and they had to walk sideways, occasionally ducking down to crawl, until finally they came to a tight gap. Ottilie inched forward, the sharp rock pressing in on both sides, but the space ahead kept her calm. There was a drop beyond. Peering below, she saw a vast cavern, with lanterns and rugs and window shutters on the holes in the cave walls.
Her breath caught. Ottilie knew where she was. This was the keeper’s hollow! She swayed on her feet, but couldn’t tear her eyes away. She took in every single part of it. Once, this would have seemed like a palace. A bed on legs, not an old chaff-stuffed mattress on the floor. Covered lanterns that were still lit, despite his slumber.
The keeper could not have known what rare treasure clung to the walls of the tunnel not far from one of his mouldering armchairs.
The cavern stank of meat-rot and old smoke. There was a small fireplace in the corner and she wondered where the smoke went. Perhaps through the cracks and into another tunnel, or someone else’s hollow.
Ottilie drifted into a strange state of calm. Her head was light, her thoughts distant. She felt spectral, an invisible visitor – like when she’d entered Ned’s dream.
Tucking the lumi into her pocket, she began to scale down the wall. When she reached the bottom, she crossed the damp, mud-crusted rugs that lay over every inch of the floor. Stopping at the edge of the bed, she stared at the man she now knew was her father.
The keeper managed the Hollows, and Ottilie remembered him as a figure of great authority: quick-tempered, but prone to sudden bursts of what he himself announced was generosity. Ottilie had once thought it was generosity, too. The extra scraps of food. The occasional blanket from his own supply.
Striding to the fireplace, she could feel Ned watching her as he followed close behind. He didn’t speak, no doubt cautious about waking the sleeping man, even though he could not know who it was.
Ottilie took hold of the iron poker. She thought of how thin she and Gully used to be and, without thinking twice, she reached out and prodded the keeper’s mountainous stomach.
He swatted at his stained silk nightshirt with a wet grunt, then gasped awake, staring at the two damp intruders.
Ottilie withdrew the poker, her eyes narrowed. Would he recognise her? Did he know?
‘Ottilie,’ he said, anger colouring his face. ‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY HOLLOW?!’ Spit flew from his mouth as he bellowed, outrage jiggling his jowls.
Ottilie nearly laughed. Not, where have you been for the last two years? She was painted with cuts and bruises. Yet he did not ask, are you hurt? He was shocked, she supposed. She could give him that consideration.
What did she even want from him? Some acknowledgment of their blood tie? No, she didn’t need that. She knew what she needed. She needed to know why her world had been turned upside down.
‘Why?’ she said, her throat so dry she could barely form the word.
‘Why, what?’ said the keeper, struggling to scramble out of bed.
Ottilie pointed the poker in his direction, warning him not to move.
‘Why did you put Gully’s name on the pickings list?’
He gaped at her. ‘I … they pay me to watch for the ones with the best potential!’ His face turned sour. ‘That’s how I keep this place running. How I keep them well fed.’
‘Well fed?’ she repeated in disbelief. Memories surfaced of dried brakkernuts and riverweed broth, and her eyes settled on his three chins. ‘He was too young.’
‘They don’t mind that, as long as they meet the requirements,’ said the keeper, hurriedly. ‘He was always a runt, but he had energy and nerve. Those qualities were top of the list.’
Ottilie thought of Gully stuck by the sunnytree, Whistler rising from the tomb, and hot tears spilled down her cheeks. She blinked and saw their empty hollow on the morning he had disappeared. Her voice cracked as she said, ‘How could you do it to Freddie?’ She wanted to say and me, but couldn’t get it out.
The keeper snorted. ‘She barely even noticed.’
Tears dripped off her chin. ‘You’re lying!’
Ottilie sucked in a breath and pressed the poker against his belly. He snarled and shoved it away. She spun it in her hand and jabbed at his throat, stopping it an inch from his skin.
Purple blotches stained his cheeks as he sneered, ‘You want to know why, you little bog rat! Because everyone knew, everyone knew you were mine. And he was someone else’s. She was supposed to be loyal to me. Your runt brother was a walking insult. I’d have just as readily put your name down to get you out of my sight, but the pickers were never in the market for girls.’
Ned stepped to Ottilie’s side.
‘You’re disgusting,’ she spat, gripping the poker so hard her fingers turned white.
In that moment Ottilie knew, without a doubt, that she never wanted to set eyes on him again. This man wasn’t family. This man was nothing.
Dropping the
poker with a thump, she turned her back on the keeper.
They had to get back to the sunnytree, had to find out what had happened to Gully and everyone else. She didn’t know what Ned had made of the conversation in the keeper’s hollow, but he didn’t ask her any questions as she led the way.
Dashing down those tunnels, past the old hollows, Ottilie felt that she was treading in two different worlds – one foot in each. She saw the place of her childhood, where she and Gully had played and hid and shivered in the dank dark. It almost felt as if a small part of her had never left; as if she’d left a piece of herself behind and finally clicked it back into place. But she also felt like an outsider, a visitor, someone who did not belong. It was dizzying and confusing, and all too much.
She felt the need to run, to create distance between herself and this strange, stagnant piece of her past. But then she saw them sitting outside her old hollow: Mr Parch, snoozing, his eyes wide open, and Old Moss, reading Our Walkable World.
A wave of warmth swept in, soothing every ache. She ran for them, skidding on the damp stone. Tears spilling down her cheeks, Ottilie dived on Old Moss, who barely had a moment to recognise her.
‘Argh – oh – Ottilie!’ cried Moss, squeezing her tight. She kicked at Mr Parch. ‘Wake up!’ snapped Moss. ‘Rouse, you beak-faced corpse!’
Mr Parch blinked his eyes closed and then open again. ‘Ottilie!’ He began a slow, scrambling struggle to sit up. Finally managing it, he wound shaking limbs through their tangled hug. ‘We so hoped you would come tonight!’ he said, gripping her shoulders as if he still didn’t believe she was there.
‘What do you mean? How did you know …’
Both Moss and Mr Parch were beaming at her, flashing the few teeth they had left.
Mr Parch pointed a hooked finger towards her old hollow.
Ottilie didn’t know what she expected to find. She stood up on shaking legs, pushed open the door, and saw Gully asleep on his bed.
29
Slumber
She clutched at the door, feeling as if she had just stepped onto solid land after years at sea. It took her a moment to see straight. Finally, she took in the rest of the hollow. With a wave of relief she saw Skip fast asleep on her old mattress. Freddie’s was empty. Before Ottilie had a chance to take him in, Leo struggled from his seat on the floor to wrap Ottilie and Ned in a bone-crushing hug. The movements roused Skip, who sat bolt upright, rubbed her eyes and beamed.
Ottilie Colter and the Withering World Page 14
