Dark Waters of Hagwood

by Robin Jarvis

  It was then the creatures saw them.

  “Ragaabah!” they shrieked. “Ragaabah! Catch the them! Snare the those!”

  That was too much for Kernella—she let out a howl and fled.

  “No!” Finnen called. “Wait.”

  But the girl was too frightened to listen, and with a curse on his lips, he chased after her.

  Suddenly the slimy creatures gave a fearsome yell and set off in pursuit.

  In the small chamber between the two tunnels, Finnen caught up with Kernella and pulled her aside.

  “Running’s no good!” he told her. “They’ll hunt us down.”

  “We can’t fight all those things,” she cried. “There’s too many!”

  “Maybe I can scare them off,” Finnen said, sounding more confident than he really felt.

  “Scare them?” Kernella spluttered. “They’re the ones who’ve plopped straight out of a nightmare, not us!”

  With glooping shouts, the sluglungs came surging in. There were at least thirty of them, and they were every shape and size, but all were larger than the werlings. Saucer-round eyes stared behind each lowered spear, and the wide mouths slobbered horribly. The snail lamps swung on their poles, and deep black shadows went sweeping around the room.

  “Yagga!” they snarled. “Jab the them, spike the those!”

  The rusty weapons thrust forward, and the werlings were driven against the wall.

  “Keep back!” the boy shouted. “Keep back—or you’ll be sorry.”

  A frothing, dribbling sound filled the chamber as the creatures laughed at his warning.

  The blunt tip of one spear prodded him in the shoulder, and Finnen gritted his teeth.

  “Thimbleglaive,” he began, “fly out and chop, slice their weapons from bottom to top.”

  At once the magical knife spun up from his belt and flashed in the light of the snail lamps. Before the sluglungs knew what was happening, it went slashing and cutting through their spears as though they were dry grass stems. With a clatter of wood and flaking metal, every spear fell in fragments to the ground.

  “Mullug mullug,” the creatures gibbered, staring at the pieces forlornly and eyeing the enchanted blade with dread.

  Finnen held out his hand, and Thimbleglaive flew to it obediently. “Now,” he commanded, “show us the way out of these oversized wormholes; take us to the outside.”

  The sluglungs mumbled unhappily. “Outside?” they repeated awkwardly, as though it were an unfamiliar word to them. “Outside? Mulluk gukwum.”

  “Don’t act stupid,” Finnen said crossly. “You know the way. You must. So take us out of here. Or else.”

  “Yes,” Kernella joined in, finally finding her own courage as her natural bossy nature reasserted itself. “Or else he’ll do to you what he did to that monster down there.” And she held up Finnen’s left hand with a proud flourish. The candle sprite’s foul lantern shone out, and the creatures sucked in their breath.

  It was a revolting gurgling noise, and the werlings saw that their shapes were actually rippling and wobbling like jelly. Kernella remembered the soft bones she had discovered in the cavern and grimaced.

  “Mullug ukloo,” they burbled. “Death singer, iklug ashgak. The big him gone? The big him dead as stone?”

  “Yes,” Kernella answered, “and if you don’t want to end up the same way, then do as we tell you. All Master Lufkin has to do is speak to that knife and you’ll be carved into gooey mince.”

  As she spoke she shook off the squirrel shape in order to look extra fierce. The transformation had a profound effect upon the sluglungs. They regarded her with awe, and their round eyes seemed to grow even larger. They stared at one another and gabbled in wet, bubbling voices. Then, abruptly, they all screeched and went stomping around the chamber as though demented.

  To the werlings’ amazement, some even started running up the walls. Their broad, splayed feet squelched on to the rock and clung to it like glue. Up they ran, until they were actually lurching around on the ceiling.

  “Stop that!” Kernella called. “Come back down here. What’re you doing?”

  “I don’t like this,” Finnen whispered. “They’re up to some—”

  Neither of them saw a pair of glistening hands slide silently down the wall behind them. As quick as a splash, they reached across and slapped across the boy’s mouth. Finnen pulled at them, but the hands seemed to weld themselves to his face. Then they stretched and merged together to form a cold, clammy band of flesh right around his head.

  Oozing from the ceiling like a gobbet of sludge, the creature dropped on to the boy’s back and held him firmly.

  The gag was so tight that Finnen could hardly breathe, and Kernella realized he could not command the Smith’s enchanted knife.

  “Thimbleglaive!” she cried. “Help us.”

  But the knife obeyed only Finnen; he was its sole master now. As the boy grappled with the sluglung on his back, another leaped at him and wrenched the blade from his grasp.

  Two more seized hold of Kernella, and the girl bawled at them.

  “Get your slithery mitts off me, you snotty lumps! If I had a bag of salt right now, I’d know how to use it.”

  The struggle was brief. Both werlings were quickly overpowered, and strong, cold hands gripped their limbs. They were captured. Kernella had a face like thunder, and she would have bitten her captors if their skin hadn’t looked so revolting.

  “I bet you taste as bad as you look!” she snorted.

  The sluglungs ignored her.

  “Come,” they said. “Us go.”

  “Where to?” she demanded, trying to kick the nearest but finding her legs were held as firmly as her arms.

  One of the creatures blinked at her and in a solemn, droning voice said, “To Big She.”

  “Who?” the girl asked. But she received no reply. The creatures turned away and, with a grunt, began to drag their captives from the chamber. They marched into the winding tunnels, their large eyes gleaming and their lipless mouths twitching.

  CHAPTER 7 *

  PEG TOOTH MEG

  IT WAS AN UNCOMFORTABLE AND, at times, painful journey. The sluglungs were not gentle and did not care if the werlings tripped and bruised their knees. Whenever this happened, they were immediately hauled back to their feet without regard and pushed swiftly along.

  Finnen’s eyes flashed at them, and he yelled behind the slimy gag covering his mouth, but no sound escaped into the musty air.

  On they went through the twisting tunnel until they came to a wide cave where five other tunnels led off in different directions. Without hesitation the sluglungs hurried down the central way. This passage shortly divided into three, and again they took the middle road.

  Finnen tried to remember the route and began to draw a map in his mind, but soon there were so many changes of direction into tunnels leading sharply to the left and right, then up and down that he had to abandon all hope of ever finding his way back. They were in a labyrinth, and the sluglungs were leading them deeper into the heart of this confounding maze with every toe-stubbing step.

  As they tramped along, the sluglungs began to sing their dirge once more, and Kernella’s scowl deepened. This time she could hear every word and realized that it was not about Finnen and herself at all. It was just a chant to march to, and the girl wondered if they actually understood the meaning or if they were simply setting a rhythm for the thudding squelches of their feet.

  Three young chicks left chirping in the nest.

  One went swimming and only two were left.

  Another flew away though the hunter did her best.

  One chick left that can never ever rest.

  Little bird, little bird, what an evil cat you sound.

  By knife you have killed, by water you have drowned,

  With hate you have harmed, but deep underground

  What you seek, what you fear, will ne’er be found.

  Kernella repeated it to herself, but she coul
d make no sense of it. Maybe nothing made sense down here.

  Abruptly, the song stopped, and the sound of running water filled her ears. They had come to a wider tunnel. Flickering snail lamps hung overhead, and when she glanced sideways, she saw that the length of one wall was a cascade of water. It poured from a crack in the stone ceiling and flowed along a trench, before disappearing through an archway at the far end.

  At either side of this arch, two sluglung guards were slouched against their spears. Both wore tunics of corroded chain mail, and ancient, rust-riddled helmets covered their flat heads. Mildew-spotted belts were fastened about their lumpy middles, and bent and blunt swords hung from each of them. Kernella sniffed and looked down her nose. She thought the guards looked ridiculous.

  Finnen eyed them curiously. He guessed that they were nearing the heart of this strange subterranean realm, but he could not imagine what they would find at their journey’s end, or what dangers still lay in store.

  “Megblug mulluk,” their captors jabbered. “Megboo, the they go. Megboo Megboo.”

  The guards peered out from beneath their helmets and stared at the werlings with suspicious interest. One of them reached out and prodded a soft, gooey finger in Finnen’s face, then rapped the boy’s forehead with his spongy knuckles.

  “The Big She no like,” he warbled.

  “The Big She take to sluglung pot!” the other guard added with a nod so vigorous that his ugly head quivered and the helmet gave a rasping rattle as it teetered from side to side.

  When she heard his words, Kernella bawled and shouted.

  “You’re not going to put me in your cooking pot!” she yelled, kicking and punching with her legs and arms. But it was impossible to even try fighting against those creatures. It was like battling toffee; the more she struggled, the stronger they clutched at her.

  The sluglungs laughed at her attempts. “To the Big She,” they gargled.

  “They’re going to eat us!” Kernella cried. “Oh, Finnen!”

  The boy’s face was scarlet as he too tried to wrestle free, but it was no use. They were taking no chances with him.

  They were pushed through the archway onto a wide ledge that ran alongside the flowing water.

  More snail lamps lit the way, and Kernella began to notice living snails upon the walls, their meandering trails glimmering in the light.

  Overhead, immense stalactites thrust from the ceiling, and the ragged remnants of old banners were strung between. They were shredded with age and black with mold; whatever images had once adorned them were rotted away and lost forever.

  With the underground stream rushing by on their left, they passed farther along the ledge. A rickety, misshapen platform built of gnarled tree roots projected across the water, and the three clumsy-looking boats that were moored there caught Finnen’s attention. He wondered where the water ran. Was there an underground lake beyond the next cave? Perhaps somewhere farther downstream it joined the Hagburn and found the outside world.

  Even as these thoughts whirled in his head, the jetty was left behind, and before Finnen knew what was happening, he fell and cut his knees on the bottommost step of a steep staircase carved into the stone.

  The sluglungs halted, and two of them hastened to gently move several snails out of the way. This was done with the greatest reverence, and Kernella stared at them in fascination as they scooped the small creatures up in their large hands, whispered tenderly to their stretching horns, then carried them to places of safety, far from any trampling.

  When the way was clear, the werlings were forced to climb the stairs. At the top, they stared at the scene before them in wonderment.

  Natural columns of time-dripped limestone formed two colossal pillars at the summit of the stairs, and beyond them an immense cavern stretched back into a glimmering space lit with hundreds of snail lamps.

  Kernella held her breath. It was the most beautiful sight she had ever seen. Embedded in the curved rocky wall, crystal rivers of amethyst and rose quartz were winking and flashing in the glow of the candle flames. To her eyes, it was like the fire of a million magical stars, and if she had not been gripped by strong, clammy hands, she would have leaped for joy.

  With glittering reflections falling across his face, Finnen looked beyond the beautiful patterns of fragmented pink-and-purple light. The cavern was alive with snails; they crept and slithered over everything—around the towering pillars, up the walls, across the floor—they were everywhere.

  In the center of the vast sparkling place a mighty boulder jutted from the ground, and atop that was set an enormous chair made of mud and clay.

  “Megboo!” the sluglungs called in respectful tones. “Megboo! Us brungun the they! The those not us.”

  There was a silence. One of the sluglungs pattered forward then returned.

  “Megboo no sit,” he said unhappily. “The Big She no here.”

  The others mumbled to one another and scratched their flat heads in bafflement until a deep, croaky voice called from the distance.

  “Meg is here,” it said. “Come, she is cooing over her favorites. She is stroking their sweet damp heads and tickling their soft bellies. Pretty little loves, Meg adores and praises you, yes she does, comfiest of cold, damp darlings.”

  The froglike faces of the sluglungs brightened immediately, and they ushered Finnen and Kernella forward, taking great pains to guide them carefully through the crowds of snails.

  They were taken toward the boulder, and as they skirted around the great mossy rock, Finnen saw that iron rungs were set into the sheer sides to form a ladder. The chair at the summit, however, was empty, and he wondered who or what usually resided there.

  A forest of ferns and shiny brown toadstools, many taller than himself, sprouted around the base, and as they made their way between them the croaking voice called to them encouragingly: “Closer, Meg is here. She and her best loves are here.”

  They picked their way to the rear of the towering rock and there, squatting upon a shelf beneath a spur of stone, hidden from the shifting kaleidoscope of lights and lost in the deep shadows, was a large, hunched figure.

  It was one of the big people: a great tall female shape rocking slowly on its haunches. Snails of all sizes were crawling over her pale, gray flesh, trailing over the long arms and slowly sliding over the bent back. Wet rags were wrapped limply around the skeletal form, and a long lank veil of pondweed-colored hair hung across her face. Her fingers were slender and bony, and more snails were being nursed and cosseted in the pale palms.

  “Beautiful princes,” she crooned to them in a cracked whisper. “Always moving, slow and sure, always changing. Patient nomads of shadow, clad in ever-flowing robes, wearing your curled crowns, painting paths of silk and silver behind you.”

  The sluglungs halted, and their tawny eyes looked up at the figure with awe and adoration.

  “Megboo,” they said. “Us have the them.”

  The figure stroked the snails a few moments longer, and with every movement her old damp-inflamed joints clicked and clacked like the snapping of dry twigs. Then, without turning her head, she said, “Why do you bring these strangers to me? To the pot, my dear friends. To the pot with them. That’s the way of it here—you know this. All waifs and wanderers, all the lost and unhappy, go to the pot.”

  Kernella was just about to shout something insulting when one of the sluglungs holding her gibbered, “But, Megboo … thissums done shobble and mooty!”

  “Shobble and mooty?” the voice croaked with surprise. “Closer, closer, let Meg spy them.”

  The figure shifted on her haunches, accompanied by the crackles and creaks of her bones, and the werlings were brought before her.

  Finnen and Kernella looked up into her face, and for once Kernella did not know what to say.

  She was an unnaturally ugly being. Her head was huge and a ghastly gray color, more wrinkled than any withered walnut. The great drooping eyes were yellow and watering, and one of the dribbling nostri
ls of her broad nose was higher than the other.

  When the werlings came into view, she peered at them with mild astonishment, and a revolting grin lit her face, disclosing only eight irregular mottled-green teeth in her large-lipped mouth.

  “Little folk,” she said. “Such small trespassers. Meg has not seen your like before, no she hasn’t—not in all the cold years. Why are you here? What forgotten tracks led you to this, Meg’s cozy realm?”

  “We didn’t mean to come here!” Kernella finally blurted. “We only want to find our way out again.”

  Meg’s eyes roved over the pair of them, and she uttered something in the sluglungs’ own ugly language.

  The one holding the candle sprite’s severed lantern shambled forward, bearing the grisly trophy in his slimy hands.

  “Mubull guk,” he said.

  Meg’s long, clicking fingers came reaching for it, and she twirled the glimmering thing in her hands.

  “Him no more?” she asked, and Kernella realized with a jolt that the question was aimed at her.

  “I was dragged down from the pool by that filthy monster,” the girl replied. “And Finnen here saved me! Killed him stone dead, he did. He’s a hero, he is, and don’t you forget it!”

  Meg’s grin became a wide smile, and she pushed the lantern behind her ear as if it were a flower. Kernella could not help thinking that it made her look even more repulsive than before.

  “The singer of songs devoured many of Meg’s folk and friends,” the woman said. “Always there he was, a danger, a threat, a terror that never changed from age to age. Meg thanks little strangers for ridding the dark of him. Small but mighty you must be, with valiant hearts much bigger than your sizes suggest.”

  With a flick of her stubblelike lashes, she signaled to the creatures holding the werlings, and they pulled away from them with horrible sludgy sounds. The one on Finnen’s back unglued his hands from the boy’s mouth and dropped to the ground with a heavy, sticky glop.

  Free at last, Finnen Lufkin wiped the ooze off his pinched face and took great glad breaths.

  “Let us go!” he demanded. “You can’t keep us here!”