The House of Power

by Patrick Carman

  It was midday when Edgar arrived at a place in which we are well suited to rejoin him: He was now near enough to the bottom that he was actually beginning to see the Flatlands for the first time.

  Before we discover what Edgar saw, it is worth noting that Edgar was usually a careful climber, even when he was moving over easy routes he’d done a thousand times before. But every climber will say the same thing: being careful most of the time is precisely what will get you into the greatest trouble in the end. You might just as well be careful none of the time from the start and get your falling over with early, quit climbing altogether, and be rid of the habit with your limbs unbroken and your life intact. No, it most certainly is a boy just like Edgar who eventually gets into trouble of the most serious kind.

  It is not surprising that Edgar was enthralled by what he saw in the Flatlands. Beneath him lay a desolate world of sharp stones, where darkness and light were split in two by shadows of every shape and size. Between the shadows the Flatlands were alive with a writhing movement the boy had never seen before. Edgar was so captivated that for an instant, he was careless with a foothold. This one careless act would cost him dearly.

  As he looked down at the Flatlands in wonder, Edgar moved his left foot to a place that felt firm and fast. But the moment he put his full weight down on it, the footing broke loose, and his left foot dangled out into the air. He held firm for a moment with his hands, but soon he was clawing at the rocks, slipping quickly down the curved stone with nothing to hold.

  Edgar’s chin bounced on the rock as he went, and he scrambled with all his might to catch hold of something, anything, but his speed only increased.

  Fortunately, Edgar’s ample resourcefulness and climbing instinct kicked in, and he latched onto an idea. It would be painful, very painful, but he could do it. The rock face to his right was filled with crags, and if he could reach over and take one of them in his hand, he might just be able to slow or stop himself.

  Bracing himself for the pain that was sure to come, Edgar scanned the face of the cliff wildly as it raced by. He shot his hand into a tiny crevice at precisely the right moment.

  There was a violent jerk of his entire body and a searing pain, but he kept falling as his hand slipped free. Edgar tried once more, and, as luck would have it, his hand found a long, skinny crack in the rock that started wide and gradually narrowed. The gap clamped his arm until it was stuck in the rock and his shoulder popped.

  Edgar came to a vicious stop, hanging limp and screaming. The same shoulder Isabel had nearly destroyed with a black fig was now firmly wedged into the side of the cliff.

  Edgar’s feet instinctively found new holds, and his wedged arm remained immobile. This was fortunate, because Edgar soon fell into shock and closed his eyes.

  When he awoke some time later, Edgar was quite sure that he had pulled his shoulder out of its socket. The pain pulsing from his elbow to his neck was almost unbearable, but his hand had gone entirely numb, and for this small blessing he was thankful. That is, until he wrenched his hand free from the rock and saw how bloody it was, which at first troubled him because he’d never been cut so badly before. But when he realized why there had been so much blood to begin with, it was more horrifying still. Edgar turned his hand around and saw that the little finger at the end—his pinky—was missing.

  He remembered how his body had jerked and continued to fall, leaving the pinky behind. It had been a hidden blessing to have his hand so utterly wedged between the cracks of the rock when he’d finally come to a stop, because it had virtually cut off his circulation and stopped the bleeding. This, combined with the fact that he’d unintentionally held his hand up over his head for an hour, had saved his life.

  There were other problems. His shoulder would hold no weight, and the hand with the missing finger dangled at his waist. It was the same hand that he’d used to touch the dust in the bag, and the scabs had been torn off. As the numbness wore off, his hand began to throb mercilessly, and blood dripped slowly from a thick scab forming at the stump where his pinky used to be.

  Edgar was nearly dizzy with anger and frustration at himself for his carelessness. An already nearly impossible feat had just been made even more difficult. He would have to make do without the pinky the rest of the way down, and he wasn’t quite sure he could do it.

  It wasn’t until he looked down again at the Flatlands, his hand and shoulder alive with roaring pain, that he remembered what he’d seen before falling—and now he knew why it had been such a shock.

  Whatever was moving below him on the ground was not human.

  Dozens of glistening thin trails appeared against the shadows like a tangled mess of bright green threads and winding ropes. Though he couldn’t make out the features of the creatures—whatever they were—from where he stood high on the cliff, he could see they moved fast. He counted seven beneath him, writhing across the landscape and occasionally slithering into or over one another.

  Beyond these strange beings Edgar could make out formations of jagged stone and a great deal of what could only be described as nothing at all. It was haunting and silent in its vastness, a blanket of rocks and dry earth with a primal power that took Edgar’s breath away.

  The rest of the day was very slow going, as you might imagine, but Edgar made steady progress at about half the pace he’d been going before. If it weren’t for the pain he had to endure, he might even have relished the challenge of trying to climb with three rather than four limbs. He cursed himself for not trying it sooner so that he might have become skilled at it.

  Edgar was an injured boy of eleven who was all alone in the world and took no comfort in food or water or tears of self-pity. But there came a point when even he found himself thinking, I won’t make it another night up here. I’m too tired to hold on in the dark. It was thoughts such as these that kept him moving in the face of impossible odds. Life had granted him adversity at every turn, and it had become his habit to find a way to keep going. His humble past served him well as he made his final descent into the unknown. And he would have completed it without further trouble, too, if he hadn’t been startled so dramatically near the very bottom of the cliff.

  There were only twenty feet to go, and night had long since fallen on the Flatlands. Edgar didn’t know for sure how close he was to the bottom—only that it was near enough for him to feel its closeness. He had been near the bottom of a cliff after nightfall before and had noticed the same certain smell, a change in temperature, and other subtleties that played on his senses.

  Suddenly there came a tremendous noise Edgar had never heard before, like the sound of a thousand dry bones snapping at once. It was close, as if it were coming from right below him. Edgar turned and gasped—but he saw nothing, for when he shifted, the pain in his shoulder flared hot and he let go of the cliff. He tumbled toward the ground—bouncing here and there off smooth stone for twenty feet or more.

  As he hit the ground, Edgar felt as though his body had shattered inside and his brains had exploded into tiny parts that careened inside of his head. He heard the horrible noise once again, even closer this time. Then Edgar closed his eyes and lay still in the Flatlands.

  CHAPTER

  19

  THE SHEPHERD’S IDEA

  Many of the houses in the Village at the Grove had toppled over, but some had weathered the quake surprisingly well, and the largest of these was buzzing with activity. Mr. Ratikan was tied to a tree and could do nothing as people from all three villages gathered in the night. There were two women and a man from the Village of Sheep, Briney and Maude from the Village of Rabbits, and an assortment of adults from the grove.

  Isabel sat outside the door at a table weaving slings out of thin strands of tree bark with two other girls. She had become queen of all the children, guiding them in the duty of collecting black figs and storing them in bags at the back of the house. Now and then a child would approach her as one would an emperor and ask her a question. It’s getting dark, shall we
keep going? We’ve found all we can in the second-year trees, where should we go now? Will you show me how to throw a black fig as you do? Isabel’s story had already become legend among the other children—her dangerous friendship with a climbing boy, her mastery of a sling. Some even whispered that Isabel alone had destroyed Mr. Ratikan’s house and freed the grove.

  The group in the house was arguing over what should be done with the bag of poison brought along by Briney and Maude when Wallace, a man hairy from head to toe who lived in the Village of Sheep, had heard enough.

  “I believe we must go to him, if we are to know the whole truth of the matter.”

  They all knew of whom Wallace spoke and where this person could be found. The group of them nodded agreement, and a small party was assembled to visit Mr. Ratikan. The group consisted of Briney, Wallace, and Isabel’s father, Charles.

  “How are things coming along, Isabel?” her father asked on the way out the door.

  “Very well! We have bags and bags of black figs and more are arriving by the hour. And these girls are exceptional weavers.” She nodded at the two girls beside her, who beamed with pride. “We already have twenty slings and we’re only getting faster.”

  “We’re going to need a lot more than twenty,” said her father. He looked concerned. “Why don’t you show some of the adults how to make them?”

  The girls scowled at Isabel’s father, as if he’d slapped their heroine queen across the face, and then looked to Isabel for hope that their important duty would not be taken away by the adults in the village.

  “We’ve got plenty of black figs,” said Isabel, trying to save the glory for her loyal followers. “I’ll move some of the others to making slings and see how we do. Give me an hour.”

  Leaving Isabel to her work, the three men made their way through the grove. They stopped at the pool and drank some water, for the guards had seen the error of their ways. Their loyalties to Tabletop ran deeper than the temporary delight of a few extra figs given for their work on behalf of Lord Phineus.

  Charles filled a cup as they left and brought it with him through the grove. He and the other two men arrived at the tree where Mr. Ratikan had been tied. The poor man was sleeping where he stood, the ropes holding him upright, his head slumped over. Charles dipped his fingers in the cup and flicked water on Mr. Ratikan’s head. When Mr. Ratikan continued snoring, Charles tried yelling the man’s name—and then kicked him in the shin.

  “Get back from my house, you wretched man!” Mr. Ratikan screamed. His throat was dry as dirt and he struggled to swallow. But then he noticed the cup in Charles’s hand.

  “What have you got there?” asked Mr. Ratikan, his voice cracking out of a raspy whisper. He’d screamed until his voice had become shredded, and he’d gone without water all day.

  Charles ignored the question. “Did you poison two men from the grove?”

  Mr. Ratikan was surprised, and it showed in his reaction. How could they know? He denied the accusation and demanded to be let go. Briney stepped forward, holding the bag.

  “Do you know what’s in this bag?” he asked.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Mr. Ratikan, though the shape and size of the bag was very similar to what Lord Phineus had, he thought, taken back to the Highlands.

  Briney opened the bag, taking care not to disturb its contents. He took a stick from the ground and dipped it in the cup, then into the bag. Mr. Ratikan gasped when he saw the stick was covered in an orange dust. Briney handed the stick to Charles and tied the bag once more.

  “You act as though you might be thirsty,” said Charles. He slurped from the cup and smacked his wet lips together. “Can I offer you some water?”

  Mr. Ratikan thought for a moment that his thirst might finally be quenched after a long, dry day against the tree.

  “I haven’t had a drop all day,” he said.

  Charles dipped the end of the stick in the water, the orange dust swirling in the cup, then he held the cup under Mr. Ratikan’s chin, where he could reach it with his mouth.

  “Get that away from me! I won’t drink it! I won’t!” It had become clear to Mr. Ratikan that these men were in possession of the leaves and dust from the grove. They knew what he had done. How did Lord Phineus allow the bag to find its way into the hands of grove workers?

  “I’m going to ask you once more,” said Charles, holding the cup a few inches from Mr. Ratikan’s face. “Did you poison two men from the grove?”

  “It was Lord Phineus’s doing! He made me do it!”

  It didn’t take very long for the three men to hear from Mr. Ratikan what Lord Phineus had planned to do with the bag of orange dust. As they walked back to the house to tell the others, Mr. Ratikan couldn’t help thinking to himself, Lord Phineus will be furious. What will he do to me?

  The men in the Highlands grew weary of a curious boy lingering about, and soon they forgot about Samuel, for they had the business of a potential war to handle. Samuel felt a small thrill as he escaped from view, hidden in the tall trees before the edge of the Highlands. He stayed in the trees all day and wished more than once that he had brought a book to pass the time.

  When night came, Samuel was out of water, and he decided to search for the channel. He fought his way through the tall yellow grass until he grew tired of the effort and veered toward the edge of the Highlands once more. When at last he reached the end of the golden field, he parted the grass and found he was close to the top of the waterfall. There he saw a figure standing in the water.

  It was a man, and though the light was faint, Samuel could see that it was Lord Phineus. He was standing in the middle of the channel close to the drop, the water slowly rippling past his knees, pouring the powdery contents of an open bag into the water before him. When the bag was almost half empty he stopped, tied it shut, and stepped out of the water on the other side of the channel.

  As if just an apparition, Lord Phineus slipped quietly through the tall grass and disappeared, leaving Samuel to wonder where he’d gone and what he could have possibly been up to.

  The three men walked toward the house, ducking under limbs as they made their way through the grove. Charles and Briney were talkative as they went, but Wallace remained quiet, and the two men began to wonder about their new friend. They didn’t realize he had spent countless days in a field of sheep without speaking a word, and this made him thoughtful in nature.

  “Are you alright, Wallace?” asked Briney. Wallace motioned to his companions to stop.

  “You know, Charles, your trick with the dust in that bag has given me an idea,” said Wallace. He scratched his wild red beard with the back of his hairy hand and continued.

  “I’ve been stewing on it all night. How can we use what’s in the bag without spreading it among ourselves? We can’t grab handfuls to throw in the faces of any attackers. It’s not a very practical weapon.”

  “I agree,” answered Briney. “It seems as dangerous to us as it is to them. At least Lord Phineus can’t use it against us as he had planned.”

  “But the way you dipped that stick in the water and then in the bag,” said Wallace. “That’s given me an idea. Couldn’t we do the same thing with a black fig?”

  Briney was beginning to understand. “Why, that’s brilliant!” he said. “The dust would dry on the fig, and we could use the slings to throw them wherever we want!”

  Charles interjected with a dose of truth. “None of us knows how to use a sling. We’re as likely to throw a poison fig at one another as we are apt to hit the approaching enemy.”

  This took a little of the wind out of Briney’s excitement, but Wallace was undeterred. “Then we best be getting back quickly,” said Wallace. “That daughter of yours has some teaching to do, and we’ve got precious little time to learn.”

  The three men hurried through the grove to find Isabel and put Wallace’s inspiration to the test. As they were nearing the village, Briney inquired whether or not Charles knew a remarkable boy name
d Edgar.

  “Yes! He’s an orphan of the grove, a very hard worker. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him about of late.”

  “He’s gone in search of something,” said Briney.

  “What do you mean? You’ve talked to the boy?” asked Charles.

  “I have. You’ll never believe where he’s gone off to. You’ll think I’ve made it up.”

  The three men didn’t know it, but everything they discussed was heard by someone hiding in the grove nearby. Isabel had put the children to work and wondered where her father had gone. She knew the grove as well as Edgar knew the cliffs and could slip between trees as quiet as a whisper. She listened as Briney told of Edgar’s encounter with the man from the Highlands, how Edgar had torched the man’s hair off, and how her friend had gone over the edge to the Flatlands below.

  Isabel crept away unheard and unseen before they could discover her missing. Her friend had gone too far this time, she knew. She wondered if she would ever see Edgar again.

  CHAPTER

  20

  CLEANERS

  It may be difficult to see at first glance, but Edgar had actually gotten an equal measure of bad and good luck all at once. It was a stroke of screaming misfortune that he’d come upon a place to where a group of unsavory creatures with enormous mouths and rows of crooked teeth had escaped. It was also true he’d fallen twice—being hurt both times—and that the creatures lurking nearby wanted to eat him.

  But it must be said that Edgar’s good luck greatly outweighed his bad, for there was a hunter who had been tracking these dangerous and unpredictable beasts from a distance for many hours. He was a grave-looking man whose hair was thinning on top, though what hair he did have grew long and tangled over his ears. He was dressed in dark clothing that made him hard to see, save for his very wide, hooklike nose that curved toward his face. The man’s name was Vincent.