by Obert Skye
“Please!”
I hesitated for a moment, but since they were polite enough to scream “Please,” I figured they couldn’t be all bad.
I flipped the back switch down, and the lights went out. If there were moths in there, I didn’t want them swarming out as I unlocked the door. It was very dark now. A tiny bit of gray was seeping in from the open steel door but it was barely enough to let me see anything.
I held my arms out and reached for the tunnel door. I grabbed the large metal latch in my hands.
“It’s not like I haven’t done stupid stuff before,” I rationalized.
I lifted the latch up, and the door quickly began to push out. I reached to grab the doorknob, but I was blocked by a large body stumbling toward me. I couldn’t tell if I was being attacked or if they were just falling. If it was an attacker, they were one of the worst assailants ever. They groaned, and I could tell it was a man. He went limp, and the weight of his body falling toward mine pushed us both to the ground.
I rolled out from under him.
The man lay motionless on the ground, the skin on his hands glowing.
“Whitey,” I whispered.
My pale visitor groaned. I stood up, shut the door, and switched the lights back on. I looked over to where Lizzy was hanging, but I couldn’t see her. The lighting was so bad in the cavern it was hard to clearly see anything more than a few feet way. I looked down at Whitey. His face was hidden by his robe, but his mouth was visible and panting.
“What were you doing back there?” I asked.
He coughed and sputtered for a moment and then spoke. “I was coming up from the far caves. I didn’t expect the tunnel door to be locked.”
“Was anybody chasing you?”
He shook his head.
“Did you see any moths?”
“No.”
“So why were you knocking and screaming?”
“I am exhausted,” he said. “My body is weak, and I knew if I didn’t get out, I might not make it all the way through the long tunnel.”
I looked closely at him. He was wearing the same brown robe with orange circles around the sleeve. His lips were still white and cakey. His skin looked so dry I could see the cracks in it.
“You found the cave,” he said breathing hard, his high voice almost piercing.
I nodded. “So what is this place?”
“I believe your great-grandfather found it,” he said softly. “He discovered that this particular mountain was full of caves and tunnels, and he figured it would be a fantastic attraction for the family. He had the stone stairs carved out, but what he really wanted was something mechanical to bring him up. He thought about a tram or a gondola, but what he really wanted was a train. So he . . .”
Whitey took a moment to calm his breathing.
“And?” I asked impatiently.
“Someone said that it was impossible because the mountain is so steep. But that just made your great-grandfather more determined to figure it out—which he did. He created a train that could bend up and down so it could ride on a track as steep as this mountain. Of course train wheels aren’t designed to climb, so he put in the cable. It could pull the train up as well as help it descend slowly.”
“Does it still work?”
“The engine hasn’t been stoked for years. Your great-
grandfather ran the track from here to the garage house where it goes underground and stops below the basement of the manor.”
“Wow.”
“But there was a problem,” Whitey coughed. “An accident. While the train was bending to enter the cave, a dear relative was caught between the two shifting segments and died. Your great-grandfather was devastated. He parked the train up here, buried the tracks, and cemented the back of the garage house where it had once entered. He never set foot in here again.”
“So, does it still work?” His story was sad and all that, but I guess I had a one-track mind.
“It might,” he said, flustered. “But it has nowhere to go. That’s not the point. The point is that you found the cave. Did you find the stone?”
I honestly didn’t know how much to tell this guy. He was more than creepy, but I had a feeling he was somehow connected to my family.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“That’s not important,” he replied.
“It is if you want to know about the stone.”
“My name is Hagen,” he said reluctantly. “Sergio Hagen.”
“Hagen like the valley?” I asked.
He nodded. “Did you find the stone?”
“Maybe,” I answered.
“And you planted it?”
“I set it here on the dirt,” I explained. “And it’s growing.”
“You Pillages and your gift—simply amazing. Now you must kill it as soon as it’s born.”
“What?” I asked, even though I remembered clearly that he had already told me to do that. I think I just pushed it aside thinking he was crazy. “Why?”
“You must kill it,” he reiterated. “The Grim Knot should have explained it all.”
“That book doesn’t say anything about killing a queen dragon,” I argued.
“If she ages it’ll be too late,” he panicked.
“I thought you said it would only be too late if I didn’t plant the stone in time.”
“That was a lie,” he admitted. “I simply needed you to move quickly.”
“What?” I asked, bothered by his deceit. “So I didn’t have to plant it?”
“It has to end.”
“What has to end?”
“As long as that stone was around, your family would never be well,” he whispered harshly. “Even if you were to avoid the sickness and obsession, the dragons would bring your children, or your children’s children great misery.”
“I don’t have any kids,” I pointed out.
“Time changes things like that,” he said sadly. “You must kill her.”
“What if I can’t?” I asked. “What if I don’t want to?”
“The book will tell you everything.”
“I’ve read the book,” I complained. “And to be honest with you, it’s a little choppy. Why don’t you just tell me what you know?”
“I only know what I’ve been told,” he said solemnly. “And your father was promised that answers were hidden in the book.”
“This is crazy,” I growled. “I don’t even know you, and I don’t want to kill any more dragons.”
Whitey stood up and faced the tunnel. “This is all wrong. Good-bye, Beck.”
“What?” I questioned. “I thought you were too weak to make it back that way?”
“I lied,” he said.
“You lied about the seven days,” I said angrily. “And you lied about this. How can I believe anything you say?”
“The book,” he said with authority. “You have done well to plant the stone, but now you must finish it.”
“But . . .”
“Finish what you started,” he snapped.
I stood there and watched him go back into the tunnel. He turned around and told me to lock the door behind him. I had never been a big fan of being told what to do, but I kind of liked the idea of Whitey being trapped in a tunnel.
I shut the door and slipped the metal latch back into place. I stayed around for another hour staring up at the ceiling, but Lizzy never came down.
When I left, it was raining harder than ever. I made it down the stairs, and, as I walked home through the forest, I saw that more of the track was washed off.
I was mad as I walked along the old, wet railroad ties. I was mad that it was raining so hard, mad that my father had abandoned me, mad that I had to leave Lizzy, and mad that all the answers to my questions were not just being handed to me. If I were more mature, I’d probably just say something like “Where’s the fun in that?” But I wasn’t more mature and, at the moment, things felt less than fun.
Illustration from page 40 of The Grim Knot
&
nbsp; CHAPTER 18
Is This the World They Created?
I’ll be honest, I’m not one of those people who loves antiques and collectables. I don’t even want to think about having to go antiquing—in fact, I’m kind of uncomfortable just saying the word. Sometimes I have a hard time around older people. I don’t like old movies, old music, or old stories. I like new cars and new movies and new music. I love the manor, but I also love Xboxes and TVs and multiple phones. Once when my mother, Francine, was still alive and she was in one of her rare good moods, she took me on a trip to a nearby ghost town. It was okay, I guess. There was a saloon and actors walking around doing tricks with guns. There was also a photo-graphy store where people could dress up in old western wear and have their picture taken. My mom wanted a picture of the two of us so badly that I had to give in. I refused to wear the old clothes, however. So the picture was of my mom dressed like a saloon girl on a stagecoach and me standing next to her in a Halo T-shirt and sneakers.
I just don’t get excited about most old things.
The Grim Knot was an exception. It was a very old book, but for some reason I really liked it. I had found it in one of the cleared-out tunnels in the basement. Milo had planted it there so that I would read it and unknowingly help him raise the dragons. The book had helped; it had clued me in on what I had to do and had caused me to accuse Kate of being the evildoer instead of Milo. Luckily, Kate turned out to be non-evil and Milo was gone for good.
I liked to just look at the book. I wasn’t too hyped about reading it again, but I didn’t mind looking at it. I had read it
all the way through once, and I really thought that was
enough. I can hardly sit through a movie twice, much less read a book a second time. But as I lay on my bed, listening to the rain beat up the manor, and holding the book in my hands,
it occurred to me that perhaps the solution to me not having
to kill Lizzy was in there. I needed to grow up and do my part. So, I carefully flipped through the book reading certain sections over and looking closely for any small handwritten notes or hidden clues. I did find a tiny sentence written under the edge of the back cover. It read: “Is this the world we have created?”
I wished all my dead ancestors had cell phones. It would be so much easier to just call them up, ask them a few questions, and be done with it. It was a dumb wish. Besides, for all I knew, maybe they did have cell phones, but they couldn’t reach me because I didn’t. I made a mental note to try that argument with my father when he returned. I really wanted a cell phone.
A storm-broken branch slammed up against my window followed by the flash of lightning. Luckily the glass didn’t break. I should have been worried, but my attention was with The Grim Knot.
As I read the excerpts that so many of my ancestors had written, my mind began to race. I could see the Isle of Man in the middle of the Irish Sea where those people had once lived. I could see the fields of grain they grew under the influence of our family gift. And I could see stones and dragons and feel the greed and power and uncontrollable obsession. The world my ancestors had created became almost real to me.
I saw time slowing to the point where it was now, and where I was left to make what seemed like monumental decisions.
“This stinks,” I moaned.
I couldn’t see anything in The Grim Knot that offered me answers to the problems I was now facing.
I held the book up and pulled the covers open letting the pages hang down over me as I laid in my bed. I shook it thinking that maybe something would fall out.
Nothing besides disappointment drifted down on me.
I rolled over and placed the book on my pillow. Mr. Binkers had fallen off my dresser and was laying on the floor facedown. I stuck my leg out and flipped him over with my foot.
“Maybe if I close my eyes,” I told him.
I shut my eyes and felt the front of the cover. Bits of it were raised, but they didn’t mean anything. I felt the inside pages for some secret bumps or braille markings. The only thing I felt besides stumped was a small bit of dried chocolate that my fingers had accidentally smeared on page thirty-three.
Rain beat like a tommy gun against my window.
I turned to the back cover and re-read the tiny words that had been hidden under the loose leather edge. I tried to read some hidden meaning into it, but I couldn’t think of anything plausible.
I pulled at the loose leather, and it tore away from the edge a little more.
“Oops,” I said, trying to press it back.
It wouldn’t stay folded over the edge so I licked my index finger and moistened the edge where it had been glued down. I’m not completely sure what I thought that would accomplish. I guess I was thinking that it would moisten the old glue residue and hold the edge down. It didn’t and, in fact, the little bit of water I had smeared on the edge caused the leather to peel back even further. I was considering using chewing gum to hold it in place when I noticed something. Right where the leather was coming off was the tiniest bit of white. I thought it was just a flaw in the leather or a scratch, but when I examined it closer I could see it wasn’t either of those things. Now instead of trying to fix the book, I pulled the leather away from the back cover. I made about a two-inch gap between the stiff book board and the leather that had been glued to it.
I looked into the gap and gaped.
There was a small piece of white paper. It had been sealed up between the back of the book and the leather that was wrapped over it. I carefully tugged the tiny paper out. It was about the size of a business card and had one corner missing. There were some big numbers scribbled on one side and on the other side was a list written in really tiny handwriting. It looked like a column of names with numbers after each one.
Thunder cracked, making the discovery feel almost sinister.
I held the card close to my eyes as I examined every centimeter of it. I carefully tore off more of the back cover to see if there was anything else hidden. There wasn’t. I peeled off the edging of the front cover and checked under it.
There was nothing but book.
I looked at the big scribbled numbers on the front of the card again and wished that Kate were with me. She was so much better with numbers and math. It was difficult to even read the list of words on the back because of their size, but I did make out the first word.
“Hunched.”
The word was followed by the number 1. I’d like to think that if I hadn’t been so tired from traveling to the cave, or so confused about what to do, that I would have figured it out instantly. But it wasn’t until almost a half hour later, while looking through the book for the fiftieth time, that I noticed the illustration on page one was of a dragon hunching.
My room lit up from a flash of nearby lightning. I counted to two and thunder shook the windows and vibrated through my chest.
I looked at the card again. I couldn’t make out the second word on the list, but I could decipher the number after it: 70.
I turned to page seventy. It was one of the last pages in the book and there was a drawing of a dragon with its wings spread. I checked the card and with the help of the picture could make out the small word.
“Wingspan.”
I quickly worked through the rest of the book. All of the numbers after the words corresponded to illustrations in the book. And all the words were descriptions of what the dragon in the illustration was doing—sleeping, attacking, flying, etc . . . I was pretty excited about figuring it out, but also disappointed that it didn’t seem to mean anything.
“What good is that?” I complained to Mr. Binkers.
I looked at the ten scribbled numbers on the other side of the card—27, 1, 20, 8, 70, 9, 54, 6, 40. I realized the random numbers were no longer completely random, they all were numbers of pages with illustrations on them. It made sense that the order that the numbers were written in was important, so I wrote down the title of the pictures in the order of the numbers, thinking it would
make a sentence that would tell me some great secret.
“Flying, hunched, drinking, attack, wingspan, sleeping, clawing, screeching, dead—it all makes perfect sense now,” I said sarcastically to myself.
I checked out the illustrations four more times and was about to just throw the book across the room and call it quits when I finally saw what I needed to see.
“Yes!”
I knew all my days of looking at I Spy books and reading Where’s Waldo would pay off. I was pretty happy to have figured it out and felt slightly smug in the knowledge that I had always known pictures really were the best part of a book.
I stayed awake long into the night, listening to the rain and staring intently at pictures of dragons.
Illustration from page 42 of The Grim Knot
CHAPTER 19
Misfire
Thunder rudely woke me up at eight in the morning. I grumbled at Mother Nature and tried to go back to sleep. But the thunder was like an alarm that went off every few seconds, and unfortunately, the weather didn’t have a snooze button.
I sat up in bed and yawned.
The Grim Knot was resting on my dresser next to Mr. Binkers. What I learned from it last night didn’t make me feel any better. In fact it scared me even more. I was so happy to discover what was hidden, but I wished it had been a different finding.
I got up, dressed, and threw on my windbreaker. Last night while taking my windbreaker off, I had found a thin plastic zipper around the back of the collar. When I unzipped it, an attached hood came out. It was way easier to just use the hood instead of baseball caps.
I ran down to the kitchen to use the only phone in the manor. Of course Millie was there, and she was peeling carrots.
“I wish we had another phone,” I complained.
“We have one,” Millie pointed.
“I know that,” I told her. “I just wish we had one with a little more privacy—or maybe a cordless one.”
“I like a cord on my phone,” Millie insisted. “It’s more
stable.”
Millie stopped peeling carrots and started to mix something in a large orange bowl. It didn’t look like she was going to step out of the kitchen to give me any privacy. I glanced out one of the many kitchen windows that the wind was shoving raindrops against and shrugged. I picked up the phone and dialed star sixty-seven followed by Kate’s number. It rang four times before her father answered.
