This is the fifth time I’ve tried to work up enough courage to touch the stone. I keep telling myself it’s just a door, nothing more, but it isn’t just a door, it’s a door that’s been waiting for me. A gateway to a place I’ve never been.
I’ve paced around the chamber. I’ve peed in the corner. I’ve eaten the dates and bread. I’ve scraped mooshed spiders from my boots. I’ve flipped the key through my fingers and wondered what Violet will do when she finds out I left the island without saying goodbye.
Now I’m wondering if it’s even possible to find one man in the Manor. One man in all the worlds. It’s a needle-in-a-haystack situation, no mistake. Only the haystack never ends.
I don’t want to think about the future of Bluehaven. Can’t think about the Makers or the quakes. I need to focus on one thing and one thing only: getting Dad back. I picture his face. His brown eyes. The way he almost-smiles sometimes when I tell him a joke.
I touch the gateway.
The chamber rumbles, and I pretty much crap my pants because the gateway grinds open at once – not outward like the main gateway, but up into the ceiling – and I’m blasted by cold air.
I’ve gotta do it. Jump. Right now.
I take a deep breath and leap over the rock pile into the darkness beyond. My feet land in something cold. A few black-bracketed candles flicker to life of their own accord on the walls either side of me. I’m standing in a short, empty hallway, ankle-deep in snow.
The gateway slams shut behind me at once.
Welcome to the Manor, Jane. Welcome to a whole new kind of weird.
THE SKELETON KEY
So it turns out snow is really, really cold. I shouldn’t be surprised, snow being frozen water and all, but still. It’s softer than I’d imagined. Drier, too. Tinted an eerie shade of orange under the candlelight. When I scoop some up and sift it through my fingers it drifts away, light as dust. When I put some onto my tongue it melts. I’m no Manor expert, but I’m pretty sure it shouldn’t be here. Snow is an outside thing, an Otherworldly thing. Violet sure never mentioned snow-filled corridors whenever she banged on about the Bluehaven Chronicles.
Something’s wrong. I can feel it.
Far as I can tell, there are no booby traps here. I scan the frosted walls either side of me, run a hand over the stone. It’s nothing like Winifred said it would be. It isn’t buzzing. It isn’t vibrant. It sure as hell doesn’t feel alive. It’s just rock, cold and dead.
I take one step forward and quickly jump back. There’s no boom, no bang, no bam or twang. It’s just me and the snow and a silence so loud I can feel it.
There’s a wooden door at the other end of the hallway. Cracked and bulging, bleeding snow and ice. I’ll probably have to dig my way into the next room.
Forward is the only way.
I take a few cautious steps, feet crunching softly through the snow, mouth puffing like a chimney. My hands are already shaking. When I reach the door I hold my breath and listen, but something presses down on me, an invisible weight. The quiet’s too thick, too heavy. ‘Just a door, nothing more,’ I say to break the silence. A locked door, it seems. I wonder.
Could it really be this simple?
I take the key from my pocket, slip it into the lock, and click, bingo.
One mystery down, a billion more to go.
Dad found a key to the Manor, but how? Where? Manor keys must be rare if Winifred never made the connection. I can’t recall any popping up in the stories I’ve heard. I do remember Violet saying people had to move on if they ever came to a locked door, try their luck on another, and trust that the Manor was guiding them the right way.
A key changes everything.
Hide it, Dad told Winifred. Keep it secret.
There must be more to it. Maybe the key opens more than this one door. Maybe it opens all of them. If it does, it’d be priceless.
But I can’t linger on that now. Gotta keep moving before I freeze.
I tuck the key back into my pocket, and clear away the ice at the base of the door. When I wrench the damn thing open, it sounds like bones breaking.
There’s a wall of snow behind it. Time to dig.
I start at the top, scraping and scooping, shaking good and proper now. When I slip, the snow sneaks down my neck, up my pants, into my boots, but it isn’t long before I’m punching air, hauling my lantern up into the next – I want to say ‘room’, but the word doesn’t do it justice. It’s even bigger than the museum foyer, soaring at least twenty storeys high, and it’s filled with arches, columns and balconies, all carved from the same ancient stone. Those creepy self-lighting candles have already flared to life, along with some larger torches too, many in places no human hand could possibly reach. There are no windows, only hundreds of wooden doors lurking between every pillar, under every arch. Most of the doors on this ground floor are three-quarters buried under the snow. The ones I can see on the floors above look frosted-over, but otherwise clear. Icicles hang from every edge, a gallery of shiny daggers.
It’s beautiful. Scary, but beautiful.
I want to call out to Dad, but that suffocating stillness holds me back. A feeling I’ve intruded on a scene undisturbed since the beginning of all things.
‘Dad,’ I whisper-shout instead. ‘You there?’
No movement. No sound save the thudding of my heart.
There are too many doors. Too many pathways to choose. I really don’t fancy another round of digging, so I head for the yawning, black archway at the far end of the hall, plodding through the knee-deep snow, cupping my free hand near the lantern to keep it warm. Stone-carved faces adorn the pillars. Women. Men. Beasts snarling down at me. Doesn’t exactly make for a relaxing stroll. I turn around and watch my back, check for any sign of danger. I feel smaller and stranger than I’ve ever felt before.
I still can’t believe I’m here. I still can’t believe Dad left me.
Stepping up to the archway now, teeth typewriter-chattering, legs numb. The snow’s banked up much higher in the next room, the ceiling so low I could almost touch it. The candles and torches in the grand hall snuff out behind me as soon as I step through, but at that same moment a black metal chandelier flares to life right in front of me – and a second, third and fourth beyond that – a whole line of them lighting up as far as I can see. It’s a corridor. A bloody long one, too.
I’m about to turn back when something makes the candles dance. A draught. It only lasts a few seconds, but a draught can only mean an opening, a way out.
Maybe a gateway Dad opened, but a gateway to where?
I set off down the corridor, trudging around the chandeliers, passing other archways, other halls, other rooms, balconies, and more buried doors. I come to crossroads and T-junctions, take a left, a right. See the odd statue poking out of the snow. The top of a helmet, a pair of horns, a spear. Sometimes I have to retrace my steps from a dead end. The place is a bigger maze than Bluehaven, and I lose the draught in no time.
It’s hopeless.
Panic rising, I stumble up a slippery staircase. The snow isn’t as deep up here. The chandeliers are high above my head, back where they should be. The air’s just as icy, though, and the doors are still frosted over, sparkling in the candlelight. I fumble the key from my pocket. ‘Please, please, please …’
I slip it into another lock and turn it. Click. Bingo again.
I was right. It really is a skeleton key. One key for every door. Somehow it feels heavier now. More precious than ever. This is the kind of treasure people would kill for.
A fat lot of good it’ll do me if I freeze.
I get a system going. Devise a set of rules for exploring the Manor.
1. Open as many doors as you can before choosing a room to enter.
2. Pick the plain rooms. The ones without slits in the walls or holes in the ceiling.
3. Stay wily. This includes, but is not limited to: keeping your eyes peeled, listening out for Dad (or any creeps who might be lurking around the co
rners), and leaving every door open (because a quick escape is a good escape).
Hours pass. At least I think they do. Time’s getting harder and harder to judge in here. The Manor just keeps going, like a map that won’t stop unfolding. Square rooms, circular rooms, the-kinds-of-shapes-I-can’t-remember-the-names-of rooms. I jog to keep warm till my legs and lungs can’t handle it anymore, the panic now a cold lump in my throat. When I see a wall covered in claw marks and stains that look like dried blood, I back away slowly and pick a different room. I think of nice things like warm blankets, hot baths, chicken soup, hot baths in chicken soup, but the nice things are never enough. My lungs burn from the cold. Frozen snot tickles my nose. I shout Dad’s name over and over, suffocating silence be damned.
I get so cold and tired and grumpy that I forget to check for traps. All it takes is a close shave with a giant, swinging axe to snap me back, and I add another rule to my list:
4. Take precautionary measures. Throw something into each room before you waltz on in and get yourself sliced, speared, torched and/or decapitated.
Later, when a candle I’ve nicked from the walls is chopped in half by a hidden blade before it even hits the snow, I decide to avoid the smaller rooms altogether.
Two eeny-meeny-miny-moes and a few icy stairwells later, I find the draught again, except it isn’t a draught anymore, it’s a howling gale. An indoor bloody snowstorm. The candles on the walls whip around like tiny orange tongues flicking in the wind. Further on, they keep snuffing out and re-lighting. The doors tremble. I call out to Dad again, my voice a fleeting puff of steam. My vision blurs. I’m exhausted. Drained. I get the bright idea to hug my lantern and steal some of its warmth, but I must’ve dropped it way back when, because it isn’t in my hand anymore. The key still is, though, snuggled tight in my white-knuckled fist.
And then I see it, through the blizzard and the blinking light. Another archway. A blueish haze. I stumble onto a balcony overlooking another grand, frozen hall. This one’s dominated by an enormous stone gateway as wide as a street and fifteen storeys high. It’s covered in tiny holes, as if stone-munching termites have been feasting on it for centuries. The dull, blue light shines through the holes. The growling wind blows through them, driving the snow and ice. There’s a frozen world beyond that door. An Otherworld.
If I were any other kid on Bluehaven I’d probably get all gooey-eyed and giddy right now – standing here, seeing this – but all I’m thinking is there’s no way Dad opened that door. The snow’s piled too high at its base. There are no footprints. I’ve just wasted hours chasing a phantom lead. I know I’m new to this adventure stuff, but I’m pretty sure things weren’t meant to turn out this way. If I wasn’t feeling so weak, so cold, I’d scream. All I manage is a mumbled ‘sorry’ as I huddle down against the wall. What if I’ve lost him forever?
But what’s this?
A raggedy pair of boots. A man standing over me with an empty black bag in his gloved hands. I can’t see his face, just a scarf and pair of goggles. I can’t cry out, can’t run, can’t move. Not even when he reaches down and slips the black bag over my head.
THE NIGHTMARE
The waves are alive. Lifting me up, throwing me down, dragging me through the angry fizz of black bubble-wash till I’m snagged by the deep-water grip of the ocean. Suspended in the dark, a familiar chorus echoes all around me, low and sickening. The groan of a dozen hungry things. Flashes illuminate the water – from below, not above – and I see them. The white-fire eyes. The great, yawning mouths. A glowing, heaving mass of tentacles streaked with lightning, reaching out to grab me. The force of the rising swell pushes me back to the surface and tosses me around like a toy. I steal a breath at the crest of a monstrous wave, and scream.
But there, in the distance. Something I’m sure I’ve never seen before. A giant rock rising from the whitewash. A small island. I kick towards it even though it’s a mile away, even though I’m already being forced back, thrown down, sucked under the waves again.
Forced back to the place where the monsters dwell.
THE MAN WITH THE BLACK BAG
These blankets stink of sweat and smoke. I feel like I’ve been sleeping for hours, days, months. My arms are too heavy. I can barely wipe the drool from my chin. I yawn and rub the sleep from my eyes. I’m sprawled beneath a statue of a man with a bull’s head.
A pair of goggles hangs from its horn. His goggles.
I jump up, fists raised and ready to fight.
The man isn’t here.
I’m in another candlelit room. No snow, no wind, just four stone walls and a door chocked open by a big metal bucket. My hand has been re-bandaged. An odd thing for a kidnapper to do. Come to think of it, how can I even be sure I’ve been kidnapped? Yeah, the man black-bagged me, but at least he got me out of the snow. He saved my life, really.
There’s a bucket chocking the door open, filled with something black and goopy-looking. It reeks so much I have to hold my breath when I nudge the door open a little wider. The hallway beyond isn’t very long. There’s a T-junction at the far end. The candles are already lit. Is the man coming back? Do I want him to? He could help me find Dad. Or at least point me in the right direction. Or he could turn my skull into a breakfast bowl. I flip between splitting and staying a billion times, and then I hear it. Footsteps.
The Man with the Black Bag’s coming back.
I figure I should lock the door between us while we come to some sort of agreement, preferably one that involves me not dying. Problem is, I can’t find the key. Can’t remember if it was in my hand or my pocket when I passed out. Did he take it? What do I do if he did?
Keep it safe, Winifred said. I have returned it to you, and with you it must stay.
I rummage through the blankets at the bottom of the statue, just in case. Thank all that’s good and shiny, it’s here, buried down the bottom.
The door creaks open behind me.
I grab the key and duck behind the statue just in time.
The guy’s taller than I am. Big but lean, as if every bit of fat has wasted away from his body, leaving only muscle and bone. He isn’t even a man. Not really. A guy, sure, but only a few years older than me, tops. He’s dressed in torn, dirty rags. His almost-beard and shag of black hair are flecked with specks of melting snow. He reminds me of a wild animal – the kind you definitely don’t want to be trapped in a room with.
This is how I’d like things to go down:
I say, ‘Who are you?’ He says, ‘Someone who can help you.’ I say, ‘You’ve seen my dad?’ He says, ‘Grey hair? Yea tall? Big red cloak? Well, tonight’s your lucky night, friend! He’s resting down the hall, right next to the door back to Bluehaven. I can take you to him now if you like.’ Then we high-five and skip the hell out of this place.
This is how things actually go down:
I say nothing, stay not-so-hidden behind the statue. He smears some of the bucket-gunk onto his shoulders. I gag from the rancid stench. He sniffs. Scratches his balls.
Has he forgotten I’m here?
I clear my throat, even cough out a little ahem, and the guy finally looks at me. Or through me. Kinda hard to tell. I want to say something tough like ‘Don’t try anything stupid, I know karate,’ but what I end up saying is ‘Are you wearing my boots?’ because I’ve just realised the jerk’s wearing my boots. He’s even cut off the ends so his toes can poke through.
‘Oi.’ I step out from behind the statue. ‘Give me back my boots.’
‘Not yours,’ he says at last. ‘Mine now.’
I don’t know what to say to this, so I ask the question I should’ve opened with in the first place. ‘Who are you?’ The guy keeps staring. ‘Where did you come from? Thanks for getting me out of the snow and all, but seriously, I can’t believe you ruined my boots.’ Nothing. He doesn’t even respond when I get all polite and say, ‘My name’s Jane, what’s yours?’ It’s a shame, because I’ve always wanted to meet a stranger. Someone who doesn’t know my n
ame, who’s never heard of curses. And here I am, still being treated like a leper.
I decide not to take it personally. What I do instead is throw the guy’s goggles at him. They bounce off his chest and hit the floor. He picks them up and stuffs them into his pocket. I brace myself for an attack, but it never comes. He just slides the seedy bucket across the floor with his foot and says, ‘Wipe it on your clothes. Hides your scent.’
‘Excuse me? I’m not wiping anything until –’
‘Just cleared our tracks in the snow. I’m leaving now. Don’t try to follow.’
‘Wait a second, pal.’ I point at him to show I mean business. ‘I’ve just had a really bad day. Or, like, couple of days. I’m not sure what time it is. The point is, my dad’s missing and I’m not letting you leave without – hey!’ He’s leaving. ‘Fine. Have it your way. Go.’
But I can’t let him go.
I leave the blankets and the bucket of poo and follow him into the hallway. ‘Come on, you can’t just leave me. I’m looking for my dad. You might’ve seen him. Grey hair? Yea tall? Big red cloak? No? Well, I’ve been wandering around in here for hours and hours –’
‘You’ll get used to it.’
‘I don’t want to get used to it. Look, you’ve clearly been in here a while. Maybe you could give me some directions. You owe me. You shoved a bag over my head.’
‘You could’ve been dangerous.’
‘What makes you so sure I’m not?’
‘You squirm in your sleep.’
Damn nightmares. ‘Look, judging by your personal hygiene, I’m guessing you haven’t had much people-time lately. Why not show a bit of human decency while you can, huh?’
Jane Doe and the Cradle of All Worlds Page 8
