by Colin Meloy
The chamber exploded with sound. Every last mole raised their voice in a warlike yowl, and the collected roar echoed endlessly through the stone tunnel; the floor was a prickly carpet of raised darning needles, brandished wildly in the air.
“One second,” said Curtis, waving his hands out to the cheering mass. “I’ve got a few questions. So—we’re going to help you defeat this guy, this Dennis the usurper? In his Fortress of Fang?”
“FANGGG,” corrected one of the attendant moles.
“Fanggg,” said Curtis.
“SUCH WAS THE NATURE OF OUR SUPPLICATIONS,” said High Master Commander Sir Timothy.
“Okay,” replied Curtis. “And if we do that, you’ll, um, give us a procession to the Southern Overdweller land?”
“WHEN WE’VE FREED THE SIBYL, SHE WILL GUIDE THE PROCESSION.”
“Right,” said Curtis. “The Sibyl. She’s got the directions.” He paused and looked at Prue, then back at the moles. “Guess that’s all my questions.”
Prue spoke up. “You said something about another Overdweller. The architect? Who’s that?”
Again, it was the decrepit mole who answered. “THE OVERDWELLER ARCHITECT CAME FROM THE OVERWORLD IN OUR TIME OF NEED, WHEN THE KINGSHIP WAS IN RUIN IN THE AFTERMATH OF THE SEVEN POOL EMPTYINGS WAR. THIS WAS MANY POOL EMPTYINGS AND REFILLINGS BEFORE THE RISE OF DENNIS THE USURPER. THE CITY OF MOLES LAY IN WASTE, ITS BRIDGES TORN ASUNDER AND ITS CITIZENRY CAST TO THE WIND. IT WAS A TIME OF GREAT STRIFE IN THE UNDERWOOD. THE ARCHITECT, SENT BY THE OVERDWELLER MOTHER IN ANSWER TO THE SUPPLICATIONS OF THE MULTITUDE, DID ENDEAVOR TO REBUILD THE CITY OF MOLES AND CONSTRUCT THE FORTRESS OF FANGGG FROM THE BLESSED MATERIALS HE GATHERED IN HIS SOJOURNS TO THE OVERWORLD. ONCE HIS LABORS WERE FINISHED AND HE LOOKED ON THE CITY OF MOLES AND THE FORTRESS OF FANGGG WITH SATISFACTION, HE DID BID US GOOD-BYE AND THUS RETURNED TO THE BOSOM OF THE OVERDWELLER MOTHER. THUS SAYETH THE HISTORIES, AS WRITTEN BY SEER BARTHOLOMEW MOLE.” The old man paused for a second before adding, “THAT’S ME.”
“Huh,” said Prue thoughtfully. Curtis tried to catch her eye to see what was transpiring in her mind, but she seemed too engrossed. Besides, the High Master Commander, Sir Timothy Mole, had raised his sewing pin to the crowd and said, as loudly as his little voice could manage, “WE MARCH FOR THE HONOR OF THE OVERDWELLER ARCHITECT, WE MARCH FOR THE HONOR OF THE CITIZENRY OF THE CITY OF MOLES, WE MARCH FOR THE INALIENABLE RIGHTS OF THE MOLES, AS CONVEYED BY THE GRACE OF THE OVERDWELLERS. KNIGHTS UNDERWOOD: WE MARCH NOW ON THE FORTRESS OF FANGGG!”
Another eruption of cheers sounded, and the entire mole army began preparing themselves for their great march. Prue and Curtis froze in place; the frantic activity below their feet was such that any wrong step could result in another inadvertent smiting. They watched breathlessly as siege towers, no taller than coffee tables, were carefully erected by teams of laboring moles; battering rams, made of what appeared to be pencils rubber-banded together, were shifted into position; while trebuchets and catapults, the size of children’s toys, followed in the rear. The mole knights seemed well trained for this massive military action; they easily broke into their assigned phalanxes, with the halberd moles taking up the secondary position (wielding what looked like chopsticks with pieces of tin can attached to the tips), directly behind a veritable sea of needle-and-pin-armed infantry moles; the salamander-mounted cavalry moved noisily behind these two blocks of soldiers, their steeds snorting and bucking in a very horselike fashion. Once the thousands-strong army had arrived at its marching pattern, the entire chamber fell into a hushed quiet.
High Master Commander Sir Timothy Mole, his salamander a blazing black-dappled red, rode proudly up the side of the phalanx of soldiers. The only sound came from a single drum (an empty container of chewing tobacco) and the drummer, who beat a solemn, intermittent prrap-a-tap-tap-tap on its tin head. Each mole, regardless of their rank or station, stood rigidly still, their little black snouts held at a lofty angle. Sir Timothy, though blind, seemed to appraise his troops with a proud steeliness, the bottle caps of his armor (one read: LEMONY ZIP!) glinting in the Overdwellers’ lantern light.
“This is so cool,” whispered Curtis, enraptured by the proceedings.
“Uh-huh,” was all Prue could manage.
Sir Timothy reined his salamander in at the front of the mole host. “KNIGHTS UNDERWOOD,” he shouted. “WE MARCH!”
The drummers laid into their makeshift drums; a line of bagpipers took up a martialing tune. The thrum of a million tiny footsteps created a mighty din in the chamber as the mole army began their advance on the City of Moles.
Desdemona was sitting on the sofa. She was staring distractedly at the variety of magazines that lay on the side table and finding herself not tempted to pick up a single one. The 1% Journal? What did that even mean? She didn’t understand the industrialist sensibility; she never had. She’d fallen in with the crowd because she’d been attracted to the money—that was what her cousin Dmitri had advised in his email to her from New York. “If you’re going to try to make it here, Dessie,” he’d written, “you have to follow the money.” And so she did. And the money had led her to Joffrey Unthank and the Quintet of industrialists. She felt that cousin Dmitri’s advice had been sensible, though she understood now that there was more to success and satisfaction than just blindly following money. What that more was, she wasn’t sure. But she was determined to find out.
The girl at the reception desk had been eyeing her ever since she’d stepped into the lobby of the Titan Tower, level thirty. She looked very young, this receptionist; she reminded Desdemona of herself when she’d been in her twenties—full of ambition and grace. She’d arrived in Portland in the possession of a film acting résumé that included Odessa Drifters and The Godfather: Part Two. The latter had been an unlicensed Ukrainian remake—but still: It looked great on a CV. The dream was still alive in her. However, there was something in the receptionist’s occasional glare that made Desdemona think she was looking down on her; a decidedly there-but-for-the-grace-of-God-go-I kind of sneer. But could she blame her? Sure, Desdemona, at the receptionist’s age, and seeing some poor woman in a secondhand gown and a plaster-cast of makeup to cover the encroaching menaces of age—wouldn’t she have shot the same withering glance?
She thankfully did not have time to consider this thought before the phone rang at the receptionist’s desk; the girl answered and, between smacks of her gum, said into the receiver, “Yeah, she’s here, Mr. Wigman. Should I show her in?”
Apparently the voice on the other end answered in the affirmative, because the young receptionist stood up from her desk, smoothed the fabric of her skirt, and walked toward Desdemona. “He’ll see you now, Miss…”
“Miss Mudrak,” she answered.
“Riiiight. Mr. Wigman will see you now. This way, please.”
Just you wait, little girl, Desdemona inwardly fumed. Life will beat you down eventually.
Together they walked to the large brass double doors at the other end of the lobby. The girl had some difficulty getting them open, but once she did, she gestured Desdemona inside. She was greeted by a booming and familiar voice.
“Dessie!” said Mr. Wigman. “Honey! Where you been all my life?”
“Hello, Mr. Wigman,” answered Desdemona, affecting a purr. It was one of her go-to acting tools—the charming purr.
“Please, call me Brad. Let’s drop the formalities here.” He was standing at the head of a massive ovoid conference table; his immense frame was backlit by windows that overlooked the expanse of the Industrial Wastes.
“Yes, Brad. Of course. Between old friends.”
Brad Wigman, Titan of Industry, laughed a resounding belly laugh, and the noise went rippling through the air of the conference room. The laugh was, in point of fact, the envy of the entire industrialist community. He’d actually been written up for it in the September issue of Tax Bracket. The cover line had read: “Brad Wigman’s Laugh—A Bellwether for Prosperity? Tips on How to Make Your Own.�
�� It always made Desdemona cringe.
“Old friends,” said Wigman, once the echoes of the laugh had subsided. “IN-deed. What can I do ya for, Dessie?”
“Well, Mr. Wigman—Brad—it is Joffrey. There is—something the matter.”
Wigman’s expression morphed into a deep frown. “Oh?” he asked.
“And you know how you say, every time we see, that if ever, ever I needing something—if I needing money or favor or just need some nice words, I come to you. Yes?”
“I do recall saying this, Dessie. And I meant it.” He walked over to where she stood and put an arm on her shoulder. “You’re a good girl. A fine girl. So: What’s up with your man, there?”
“It is still … It is Impassable Wilderness.”
Brad rolled his eyes and scoffed, “He won’t give it up, will he?”
Desdemona shook her head, her eyes dramatically downcast.
“Bammer, Jimmy,” Wigman called, snapping his fingers just over Desdemona’s shoulder; two stevedores in matching red beanies came lumbering up. “Get this lovely lady a spritzer.” To Desdemona: “How does that sound? A spritzer?”
“A spritzer would be very nice.”
“A spritzer for the lady. And an espresso for me. In one of those, you know, small cups.” As if to illustrate, he held his hands out, holding an invisible cup and saucer.
“Yes, Mr. Wigman,” said the two stevedores in unison.
Wigman looked back at Desdemona, his gaze steely and intent. “So what’s going on now?”
“It’s just that … well, it is all he thinks of. All he talks of. It is never out of conversation with him, this Wilderness.”
“It’s an issue,” said Brad Wigman, letting out a sigh. “We’ve been trying to curtail it.”
“Yes, and I think he was good for a time. He focused on work, on the machine parts. But then…”
“Then?”
“Then, he’s had a visitor.”
Wigman raised his left eyebrow. “A visitor?” he asked.
“Yes, a man of mystery. He dresses like old times. He has—what do you call it—pince-nez.”
“What, like on his nose?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“For glasses?”
“Mm-hmm.”
In truth, Wigman had been considering how to incorporate a pince-nez into his outfit; he’d ruled it out, deciding that it was pushing things just too far. And yet this gentleman had managed it; it gave him new hope. “Is he a Titan? An industrialist?”
Desdemona shook her head. “I’m not thinking so. He has strange thing about him—a thing I cannot explain. A .”
“A yuckies?” That was how it had sounded.
“Yes,” said Desdemona, assuming he’d understood the Ukrainian word. “Like special mist or shadow. I cannot explain.”
“Go on,” prompted Wigman.
“And ever since this meeting with this man, all operations stop. Everything. All clients, poof! Everything now is thing he must make.”
“Wait a second.” Brad’s face had sobered considerably. “What are you talking about, all operations stop?”
“Exactly what I say! All machines, once making bolts and … bolts and things, now making this thing, this one machine part. Children are stopped working; they sit in bed all day, playing the poker.” She mimed the dealing of cards with her long fingers.
Wigman waved his hands impatiently in the air. “Hold up, hold up,” he said. “What is this thing?”
“It is thing he is told to make, from gentleman. It is some machine part. A cog.” Desdemona was content that she’d got the Titan’s full attention.
“A cog.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“And he’s stopped all production to make this cog?”
“Yes, indeed.” She was really getting somewhere; she was seeing the color rise in Wigman’s cheeks.
The two stevedores, Bammer and Jimmy, returned with a small espresso cup and a glass of clear, bubbly liquid. Wigman took the espresso, slammed it back with a jerk of his head, and handed it, empty, to the stevedore. Desdemona politely took the glass of spritzer; she sipped at the contents.
Between sips, she continued to talk. “And it is all for Impassable Wilderness, Mr. Wigman. The gentleman says he will let Joffrey into I.W. if he makes this piece of machine for him.”
“Is that so? Just … let him in? Like that?”
“It is true. But how is this possible? It is not possible. Mr. Wigman—Brad—I come to you like old friend. You and Betsy”—Betsy was Mrs. Wigman, a triathlete mother of five and member of the school board; she’d always rubbed Desdemona the wrong way—“have always been so kind. Ever since I come to United States. I ask you, please. Please to make Joffrey stop this madness with Impassable Wilderness. It is hurting business. It is hurting Quintet. It is hurting me.” She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye to see that her story was hitting its intended mark.
Wigman looked distracted; he was chewing on his lower lip. He seemed to startle when he realized she was finished with her plea. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, yeah. Well, that’s clear.” He straightened his tie, tightening the knot at his throat. “You know, I told that guy: Get your head out of the Impassable Wilderness junk. Told him plenty of times. But it doesn’t sound like he’s listening much. Tell you what, Dessie. If I popped over to the shop and had a little chitchat with your man there, would that smooth things over? Try to get his head back in the game?”
Desdemona smiled broadly, revealing her one gold tooth. “Yes, it would very much so.”
“Good, good,” he said. “I’m gonna go get that on the books straight away. ’Tween you and me, Dessie, we’re going to get all this straightened out. Your man’ll be back to normal in the time it’d take you to say ‘environmental regulation loophole.’”
“Environmental regulation loophole,” said Desdemona playfully.
Wigman smiled. “There you go. That’s the spirit. C’mon, I’ll walk you out.”
Together they sauntered out of the conference room and through the tall brass double doors to the lobby. Wigman had his hand on Desdemona’s shoulder as they walked. When they’d arrived at the secretary’s desk, Wigman said, “Hey, doll—why don’t you put me down for a little onsite visit to the Machine Parts Titan’s place, as soon as you can swing it.” He winked at Desdemona.
“Sure, Mr. Wigman,” said the receptionist. She began stabbing a pink-nailed finger at the computer mouse, clicking her way through her boss’s calendar. In the meantime, Wigman gave Desdemona a little pat on the back.
“Now, Dessie,” he said. “I want you to head on back to that li’l orphanage of yours and take it easy; don’t let this nonsense get to your head. We’ll have it all sorted out in no time.”
“Brad,” said Desdemona, sneaking a look at the receptionist to see if she’d registered the first-name familiarity that the two of them had. “Bradley. This is so kind. So kind of you. You are old, true friend. If anything can get his mind back to important things, to machine parts, it is you.”
“And that’s just what we’re going to do.” He gave her another pat. “Now run along, Dessie. We’ll be seeing you soon enough.”
Desdemona smiled sheepishly, breathed another word of thanks, and headed toward the elevator doors at the other end of the room. Wigman watched her go. Once she’d disappeared beyond the closing doors, he put his hand to his chiseled chin and rubbed absently at the freshly shaved skin. He glanced at the ceiling-tall windows that made up the western wall of the lobby and stared at the wall of trees beyond the glass in a way that he hadn’t remembered doing before—it was something that hadn’t necessarily ever occurred to him. But now the wall of green seemed to take on a new—what had she said?—yuckies. It was distracting him; distracting him in a way that it hadn’t before.
“You can do Wednesday, Mr. Wigman,” said the receptionist, jarring him from his meditations.
“Wednesday,” he said. “Great. Put me down.” He spun about and walked back thro
ugh the resplendent brass doors.
What Wigman didn’t know: On the hem of the forest’s leafy fabric, all flocked with snow, there was a curious ribbon through which no one of Outside descent could travel. It was there that Elsie and Rachel Mehlberg had found themselves, quite trapped, among thirty-six children, several dozen stray dogs and cats, and an old blind man with wooden eyes. Two days had passed since they’d crossed over into the netherland, the Periphery, and while the rest of the children who called the place home seemed to enjoy their lives there, Elsie and Rachel were strangely discontented. For one thing, it would be a matter of days before their parents would return from their trip to Istanbul, hopefully with their brother in tow; they couldn’t imagine their grief on arriving stateside only to discover that in the process of finding one child, they’d managed to lose the other two. It was paramount that Elsie and Rachel be there for them—their parents would undoubtedly die of heartbreak if they weren’t.
However, it didn’t seem like they had much of a choice. The magic of the Periphery was clearly very strong—why else would all these children and dogs and cats be stuck here? Besides, Elsie was very much under the sudden impression that her brother was not, in fact, in Istanbul at all. It was a feeling she’d had before, when she’d seen her brother’s school friend at the pumpkin patch in the fall, though she now was suddenly able to correlate it with this place, the Wood and its enchanted boundary. And so the two sisters fell in line with the other children and chose tasks for themselves that they might better contribute to the community into which they’d been thrown.
Rachel, while initially resistant, found that the hewing and stacking of firewood appealed to a patch of her brain that longed for structure. The chopping part somehow ameliorated whatever frustrations she was having, and the loading and stacking felt like an elaborate game of Tetris. Elsie, too young for heavy physical work, had taken to mending clothes. She also endeavored to replace her Intrepid Tina doll with a facsimile that she’d made out of a few sticks and a handful of moss. Once she’d completed it, the doll became the envy of the other younger girls (and a few boys), and so she became busy satisfying the orders of a steady line of customers for the woody toy.
