by Colin Meloy
Curtis and Prue exchanged a confused glance.
The mole, with not a little panache, pulled the needle from his belt and planted its point on the stone of the tunnel floor. He then took a knee, like a football player in pregame meditation, and said, “GREAT, HOLY OVERDWELLERS, HAVE OUR LABORS BEEN BLESSED BY THE PANTHEON OF THE OVER WORLD? HAVE YOU COME TO AID US IN OUR STRUGGLE TO PREVAIL AGAINST DENNIS THE USURPER AND RETAKE THE FORTRESS OF FANGGG? HAVE OUR SUPPLICATIONS TO THE OVERDWELLER MOTHER BEEN ANSWERED?”
Curtis stood for a moment, shocked by the barrage of information, by the intense devotion of the small animal. He reached for Prue’s hand in the expectation that they would then share a quiet moment of consultation—it seemed to him that the gibberish the strange mole was babbling held some grave importance and that their answer should be carefully deliberated before they went about engaging with him. But he didn’t get a chance.
Prue, without a moment’s hesitation, said, “Yes.”
And that was that.
In the misted distance, the roof gables of the pagoda were the first things to come into view. They were draped in heavy pillows of snow that followed the roof’s sloped contour. The dragon heads that decorated the eaves were dusted with the white stuff, giving them the illusion of being bearded and white, wise to the ages. Seeing the building, the woman inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. The snow covered the sand gardens that surrounded it, obscuring the meticulous patterns raked into the fine gravel by the younger monks. A gosling, clearing snow from the stone path to the pagoda, stopped to greet her as she approached. The horrified look on the bird’s face was enough to let the woman know that she probably looked terrible; she felt as much, her arm hanging like dead weight at her side, held straight by a cobbled-together splint she’d made from tree branches. Her left leg smarted—a bright bruise that had shifted, chameleon-like, through every color in the spectrum graffitied the skin of her thigh. Her dashiki was rent considerably, and she knew that her face was marred with dried blood, all black and chalky.
The old man was there at the top of the steps, waiting for her. His ancient face betrayed no emotion as she approached; he looked at her disinterestedly, as one would seeing the postman approach or a stranger on the street. When she reached the midpoint of the pagoda stairs, she fell to her knee.
“It’s done,” said the old man.
Darla found it hard to meet his eyes. “The old Mystic, yes. The half-breed children … are likely dead.”
“The employer has signaled satisfaction.”
Darla looked up at the man. “Satisfaction?” She paused, searching for the words. “I can’t, in good conscience, confirm the kill.”
“What happened?”
“They fell. Into the Long Gap. I couldn’t follow.”
“Come in, Darla,” the old man said. “You must rest.”
Inside, a brazier emitted a glow of heat from its red coals. The central chamber of the pagoda was decorated in an ascetic fashion: A few benches lined the wall; a series of woven mats covered the floor. The old man, in a simple burgundy wrap walked to the end of the mats and, flourishing the hem of his robe, sat down. Darla followed suit, lowering herself, with some difficulty, to her knees in front of him.
“How does the employer know?” Darla asked.
“It would appear that the Intuits, the ones that listen to the woods, no longer hear their presence.”
“Are we discharged then?”
The old man massaged the knuckles of his fingers before speaking. “Yes,” he said. “Until next I need you.”
Darla, with some difficulty, managed to clap her hands together in front of her chest. She grimaced at the pain in her arm. “Thank you, daimyo,” she said. She got up to leave the pagoda. Before she’d reached the door, however, she heard his voice again.
“Darla.”
“Yes, daimyo.”
“How certain are you?”
Their eyes met. Darla remained silent. The man nodded.
“Very well,” he said. “Let us not take the employer’s satisfaction as a signal of the end of the assignment. We shall remain vigilant.”
“Yes, daimyo.” She turned and left the room.
The slate was cleared. All existing orders were shelved, current clients mollified with the explanation that the shop was getting a major overhaul—updating to the latest and greatest in machine-part manufacture. Production was ceased on every machine that, to Unthank’s best estimation, wouldn’t be absolutely necessary to anything but the task at hand. Molds were pulled from their cradles and stored; every nook and cranny was scoured of any contaminant that might compromise the manufacturing process. All the orphans were pulled from their normal assigned spots and put on call; he couldn’t afford to delegate any responsibility to these urchins. Absolute perfection, at every step, was required to create something so meticulous and demanding as the Möbius Cog. If he managed it—and he was still leery that it was even possible—it would undoubtedly be the crowning achievement of his career.
Desdemona watched the proceedings silently. She helped him when she could, though it was clear that this was a mission that he himself would have to achieve. She brought him refilled jugs of water on the shop floor; she carried away his half-eaten sandwiches from his desk; she woke him at three in the morning when he’d fallen asleep on the pile of notes he’d amassed. She didn’t bother bringing up his betrayal of her dream—of the dream she’d thought they shared—and stewed on it, wordlessly.
The machine shop was a ghost of its former self, removed of the hubbub of the working children. Now it was only Unthank on the shop floor, surrounded by a few orphans who served merely to do such menial tasks as carry the sheaves of paperwork he’d created in his research. Working into the early hours of the morning, he crafted the wax molds that would eventually be burned away to give birth to the three twisted gears, the orbiting rings of the Cog’s magnetic core. A vat of molten brass bubbled and smoked at the far end of the shop, awaiting its moment when it would be carefully poured into the prepared ceramic die. From the outside, the windows of the Unthank Home glowed bright orange; inside, the heat and light could bring to mind some religious zealot’s image of the Underworld, where eternal punishment is meted out to the unholy. Hephaestus himself would not seem out of place in this cauldron of fire, among the clanging of iron and the churn of hydraulic machinery. As the days wore on and the nights melted away like so much molten ore, Unthank began to see himself in an almost godlike light. He was the creator, the maker. He was breathing life, sacred life, into the coldness of these raw materials. The God of Judeo-Christian belief had created the universe himself; Unthank saw multitudes contained in every tooth, sweep, and angle of the Cog’s mechanic. God had seven days to make the universe; Unthank had been given five.
And he was determined to beat the spread.
PART THREE
CHAPTER 17
Return of the Overdwellers
The floor of the chamber was alive.
At least, that was how it seemed. It undulated with the activity of a multitude of living things, all set on different activities and preparations. It was an army of mole knights, all similarly equipped with darning needle swords and bottle-cap armor, and they numbered in, perhaps, the high thousands. Prue had gasped when she’d turned the corner, following the lead of the mole knight, whose name they learned was Sir Henry Mole. Or, rather, “SIR HENRY MOLE” as he’d said in his inimitable voice when he’d finally ceased his prostrations and introduced himself.
(“My name’s Prue,” she’d said in response. “This is Curtis.”
“And this is Septimus,” said Curtis, aware of the rat’s familiar feet returned to his shoulder.
“PRUE, CURTIS, AND SEPTIMUS: BLESSED BE THY NAMES. THE BELLS OF THE OVERGROUND RING WITH HEAVENLY MUSIC AT THE UTTERING. I GENUFLECT TO THEE.”
“Please don’t,” said Curtis. “I mean, you don’t really need to.”
“I think you’ve genuflected enough,” added P
rue.
“That’s a mole,” observed Septimus, who’d by now realized that they’d not been in danger of being overtaken by rat-eating snakes.
“MY AMAZEMENT AT YOUR SUBLIME PRESENCES INHIBITS ME FROM DOING OTHERWISE, O GREAT OVERDWELLERS.” However, taking the two children’s instruction as scripture, he’d stopped with his bowing and groveling. “WILL YOU ACCOMPANY THIS HUMBLE KNIGHT TO THE FRONT, FOR AN AUDIENCE WITH HIGH MASTER COMMANDER TIMOTHY, ESTEEMED LEADER OF THE KNIGHTS UNDERWOOD?”
“Sure,” said Prue. Curtis was staying out of it; he assumed Prue had some sort of plan. While they were following the little mole through the twists and turns of the passageways, however, she admitted to her real motivation. “Seems like a good idea,” she’d said. “Besides, he’s just a mole. What can go wrong?”)
But nothing had prepared them for the sight of the entire army, the mass of little furry black bodies stretching on to the boundary of their vision in the dark chamber. When the moles had detected the presence of the two humans and the rat, the entire mob turned their snouts in their direction. The three of them were greeted by a multitude of gasps and “HUZZAHS” and general pronouncements of amazement at the arrived deities—though they were all clearly blind: The fur on their small, pointed faces was unbroken by the presence of what could be considered eyes.
Sir Henry had leapt up onto a piece of scaffolding, some five inches tall, and addressed the crowd. “COMPATRIOTS, BROTHERS-IN-ARMS, OUR SUPPLICATIONS HAVE BEEN ANSWERED. THE DEITY HAS BESTOWED ON US THREE DEMIGODS FROM THE OVERWORLD. OVERDWELLERS PRUE, CURTIS, AND SEPTIMUS. WITH THEIR AID, WE SHALL BE VICTORIOUS!”
More “HUZZAHS!” erupted from the crowd; Curtis noticed they all shared the same strange dialect and timbre as Sir Henry.
“Hello,” said Curtis.
“Howdy,” said Septimus.
“Hi,” said Prue. They all waved timidly.
The mole army, silent, stood before them. Prue imagined that they might be expecting something more, some holy declaration. “Nice to meet you!” was all she could manage.
“I don’t suppose you’ve got any food, like, for overdwellers,” said Septimus.
Prue shot him a look; Curtis poked him in the ribs with his finger. It didn’t seem like a very deity-like thing to say.
“THE OVERDWELLERS CALL FOR MANNA! QUICK, THE GRANOLA BARS!” came a call from the rear of the crowd.
“See?” said Septimus, vindicated.
Twin waves of moles, their bottle caps clanking, folded away to create a clear avenue down the center of the army. A group of the animals broke away from the whole and sprinted off to some unknown destination; they returned moments later, hauling a brown and mildewed cardboard box. They laid it at Prue’s and Curtis’s feet, prostrating themselves as they approached.
“OVERDWELLER AMBROSIA,” explained Sir Henry. “FOOD OF THE GODS. SEVERAL BOXES OF IT WERE DEPOSITED IN A CHAMBER BY ONE OF YOUR KIND, MANY, MANY POOL EMPTYINGS PAST.”
Prue picked up the box. It was a package of Nature’s Friend granola bars, though the printing on the box had nearly faded away completely with age. She flipped it over and inspected the expiration date: 10/23/81.
“Uh,” she said. “This expired in 1981.”
There was no response from the mole army.
“Let me see it,” said Curtis, grabbing the box from his friend. He tore open one of the green foil packets; he scarcely had time to examine the granola bar within when it was ripped from its packaging by the rat at his shoulder. “Meems okay to me,” Septimus mumbled through the crumbs. “Mpretty mgood!”
The army erupted once more into shouts of praise and adulation. Curtis offered Prue one of the bars from the box; she took it, eyeing the bar skeptically.
Another tumult sounded from the rear of the army. The path was once again cleared, and a retinue of mole knights traveled up the center; a few of them were riding what appeared to be salamanders, each draped in a kind of livery made of repurposed cardboard squares. The mole in the lead, astride one such reptile, wore a bottle-cap suit of armor that seemed, somehow, more impressive than the rest of the army’s array. A thimble was perched on his head, held there by a thin, pink rubber band.
When he’d arrived at Prue’s and Curtis’s feet, he vaulted from his salamander with a dashing leap, like Errol Flynn launching from his steed to greet a maiden in distress, and dropped to one knee on the stone of the chamber floor. His armor clicked and clanked dramatically as he moved. “OVERDWELLERS! I AM SIR TIMOTHY, HIGH MASTER COMMANDER OF THE KNIGHTS UNDERWOOD. I SUBMIT MYSELF TO YOU. GRACIOUS OVERDWELLERS, WE GIVE THANKS FOR YOUR BLESSED REVELATION.”
Curtis, having sated his hunger somewhat by the Reagan-era granola bar, took the bait; he’d been leery at first to dive into the strange endeavors of the mole army, but he was now taking to it with a real flair. “We are well pleased with your devotion, Sir Knight,” he said. “And the Overdweller Mother has deemed you worthy of … intercession.”
“Hold up,” said Prue, ever the prudent one. The attention of the room swiveled in her direction. “We’re not really, you know, gods. We’re just…”
The room was silent as she searched for a description. Curtis was fixing her with an astonished glare. She swallowed loudly. It occurred to her, then, the implications of being imposters to such a devout race of animals. She envisioned the three of them being swarmed, Lilliput-like, by these armed rodents. Those darning needles, while being somewhat harmless on their own, seemed frightening if employed en masse. Curtis intuited her change of heart.
“Demigods, more like,” he finished for her. “You know, pretty much the same.”
The room seemed to relax at this announcement.
Prue decided then that she would continue to let Curtis do the talking; he seemed to have the lingo down. He continued, “And we’ve been tasked to aid you in your struggle. However, the Overdweller Mother has demanded one condition to be met after your victory has been won.”
“NAME THIS CONDITION, O GREAT ONES,” said Sir Timothy.
“That we, in a, um, show of your faith, are brought in regal procession through the tunnels of the Underwood to the South—to the city of the Overdwellers in the South part of the Overworld.”
Sir Timothy paused, his knee still firmly planted on the stone. He was working over what Curtis had just said. “THING IS, O GREAT ONE,” he said after a moment, his voice trembling with fear of reprisal, “WE’VE NEVER BEEN TO THE CITY OF THE OVERDWELLERS OF THE SOUTH. THE WAY IS A MYSTERY TO US.”
A voice came from behind him. “THERE IS A WAY!” The voice, while still carrying the strange resonances of the moles’ speech, sounded old and decrepit. Sir Timothy turned to watch a mole, dressed in a robe and walking with the aid of a twiggy cane, approach from his throng of attendants. Oddly enough, the old mole sported a long white beard, which Curtis didn’t recall being something that moles typically did.
“THERE IS A WAY,” said the old mole again.
The chamber, the collected thousands of mole knights, all quieted to listen.
“THERE IS A WAY,” he repeated. “THERE IS A—”
Sir Timothy finally interceded. “WHAT IS THE WAY, O ELDER KNIGHT?”
The senior mole chewed on his lip for a moment and stroked at his beard with his paw. “THE SIBYL, THE GOOD HIGH MASTER COMMANDER’S SISTER AND PROPHETESS TO DENNIS THE USURPER, KNOWS THE WAY TO THE LAND OF THE SOUTHERN OVERDWELLERS. SHE HAS THE KNOWLEDGE FROM HER VISIONS.”
“INDEED!” exclaimed Sir Timothy. “MY DEAR SISTER, GWENDOLYN, IN THRALL TO THE USURPER. WHY DIDN’T I THINK OF THAT?”
The old mole shuffled in his robe, in shrugging humility. “’TIS NOTHING, HIGH MASTER COMMANDER,” he said.
“Hold up,” said Prue, stepping forward. She heard a scream issue from the ground at her feet; she’d stepped on one of the moles, a squire to the High Master.
“I’VE BEEN SMOTE!” shouted the squire. Prue quickly jumped back, removing the heel of her boot from his back.
“Sorry,�
�� she said, her hand at her mouth. “Is he okay?”
A few moles had rushed to the squire’s side; with their help, he seemed to be recovering well.
“I’M OKAY!” he said.
“I didn’t mean to, uh, smite him,” said Prue. She smiled apologetically. “What I wanted to ask was, who’s this Dennis?”
“YOU DID NOT HEAR IN OUR SUPPLICATIONS? OUR OFFERINGS AT THE OVERDWELLER ALTAR?”
“Maybe we missed that part,” interjected Septimus.
The moles, thankfully, did not fault them for their gap in omniscience. The old mole, his paws cradled at his belly in a kind of thoughtful pose, began speaking in a quavering tenor. “THREE EMPTYINGS OF THE GREAT POOL AGO, THREE EMPTYINGS PAST, WHEN THE OVERDWELLER ARCHITECT CEASED HIS VISITATION AND THE CITY OF MOLES HAD BEEN COMPLETED TO THE SATISFACTION OF THE OVERDWELLER ARCHITECT, WHO CAME NO MORE, DID THEN DENNIS WHO FORMERLY WENT AS THE CONSUL TO THE HIGH MOLE KING COME FORWARD AND, UPON THE DYING BREATH OF THE HIGH MOLE KING, SAY UNTO THE GATHERED CITIZENRY THAT HE HIMSELF HAD THUS BEEN BEQUEATHED THE KINGSHIP. UPON THE CORONATION, THUS DID DENNIS WAGE WAR UPON HIS FELLOW MOLES, CASTING OUT THE ENEMIES OF HIS CREST AND WILLFULLY IMPRISONING THOSE WHO DARED SPEAK OUT AGAINST HIS WANTON RULE. HOCHMEISTER SIR TIMOTHY, GREAT AND POWERFUL, WAS THE FIRST TO GATHER IN THE WASTELANDS OF THE UNDERWOOD, BEYOND THE CRESTED BRIDGE, AND MUSTER AN ARMY TO CHALLENGE THE RULE OF DENNIS, DENNIS THE USURPER OF THE KINGSHIP, AND RECLAIM THE THRONE OF THE CITY OF MOLES FOR THE RIGHTFUL HEIRS, THE UNITED MOLES OF THE UNDERWOOD.”
When the small, aged animal had finished his recitation, which sounded to Curtis like someone saying aloud some ancient scripture, a silence followed as the three Overdwellers attempted to digest the information they’d just been given.
“Okay,” said Septimus. “That’s Dennis.”
The mole continued, “IT IS AUSPICIOUS, THE OVERDWELLERS’ ARRIVAL AT OUR PLACE OF MUSTER. OUR PRAYERS HAVE BEEN ANSWERED BY THE OVERDWELLER MOTHER. THE SIEGE OF THE FORTRESS OF FANGGG MUST COMMENCE. WE SHALL BE VICTORIOUS WITH THE HOLY ASSISTANCE OF THE GREAT OVERDWELLER DEMIGODS CURTIS, PRUE, AND SEPTIMUS.”
