by Colin Meloy
Carol blew out a breath. It sounded like “HOOO!”
The children all looked to him.
“That’d be about right,” he said. He finally brought the lip of the pipe to his mouth and took a long, ponderous drag. “Direction marker. You were pointed toward the Avian Principality, if memory serves.”
Michael stared at the old man intently; Cynthia dropped the spoon she’d been using to stir the cream into her tea.
“Seems like you guys found a way through the Bind,” said Carol. “Some kinda break or something. You remember passing through anythin out of the ordinary? Something that might’ve looked like a passageway or somethin? I ’member folks talkin about such things; rifts and such. But I never knew any to exist.”
“Not really,” said Elsie. “I mean, I think I would’ve remembered something like that. I don’t think I followed the exact same way when I went back. I tied ivy stalks to the trees, but I didn’t, like, use my exact footsteps on the way when I showed it to Rachel.”
Rachel nodded in affirmation; she was absently batting her yellow tag earring with her finger.
“Well,” said Carol after a significant pause, “I suppose we’ll have to go look at this road of yours.”
Michael looked shocked. “It seems like it might be a long way, Carol. Sure you can manage?”
Carol batted a friendly hand toward the boy’s voice. “I’ll be fine. I could use a little walk around the place, anyway. Been settin on these bones a little too long.” He pulled on his pipe again. The clinking of dishes in the washing sink had ceased; the children had all moved to their tucked-away beds. The candlelight reflected from the painted-on pupils of Carol’s eyes. “Dark now,” he said. “Best to head out first light. Let’s not let the little ones in on this; don’t want them to get their hopes up about nothin. Could be it’s just a trick of the light; a well-used game trail through the Periphery. No offense to the girls here; it’s easy to get confused in these woods. They got a lot of tricks.” He thumped his pipe against his dungarees, the smoking ash falling to the floor. “Could be, though, it’s our ticket out.”
Michael eyed the two sisters as he smoked. Cynthia stirred her tea. Carol ground his boot heel into the scatter of ash he’d made. “Could be,” he repeated.
CHAPTER 19
Sir Timothy’s Conveyance to the Beyond
The moles spared no expense or extravagance for the funeral of the High Master Commander Sir Timothy Mole. He was borne from the fortress in the ceremonial armor of his grandfather, on a pallet covered in the greenest lichen. The townsfolk lined the labyrinthine city streets to watch the procession pass by. The air was filled with the mournful cries of the citizenry, so great was their appreciation to Sir Timothy and his valiant cohort of Knights Underwood for saving them from the domination of Dennis the Usurper, who was now serving a life sentence in the deepest cell of the Fortress of Fanggg’s dungeon. A petite brass band led the way; they played a loping fanfare that sounded to Curtis’s ears as being both joyous and heartbreaking at the same time. The two Overdwellers watched on from the open plaza beyond the outer wall of the city.
The parade followed a well-worn path to a part of the chamber Curtis had not seen before. About thirty feet from the walls of the city was a massive pool, fed by a steady drip from the unseen ceiling. It occurred to Curtis that this must be the pool that was being referenced when the moles spoke of the passage of time: “this many emptyings and refillings of the pool.” Moles, young and old, lined the path from the front gate to the water’s banks. When the parade had arrived there, a few words were spoken by the deceased knight’s sister, the Sibyl Gwendolyn, before the pallet was pushed into the water. An eddying current took the body away from the mourners into the farthest dark of the chamber. The knight’s soul, so said the Sibyl, had gone on to join its brethren in the world of the Overdwellers.
As the congregation returned to the city to host a banquet at the recently liberated Fortress of Fanggg (for which the reconvened Mole Council had proposed a name change to the Fortress of Prurtimus—in honor of the three Overdwellers who had been so instrumental in Dennis’s defeat), the Sibyl tarried at the feet of Prue and Curtis, nodding up to them as she approached. Septimus, finally freed of his armor, bowed low to see her.
“It was a beautiful ceremony,” said Prue, breaking the silence.
The mole nodded solemnly.
“Sorry for your loss,” added Curtis.
“He’s in the Overworld now, at peace.” This was Prue; she was sensing the deep sadness in the Sibyl’s comportment. She’d spent the entire service searching for the appropriate thing to say.
She was surprised to see Gwendolyn make a dismissive wave. “PISH,” she said. “IT’S ALL HOGWASH. I DON’T KNOW WHERE HE’S GOING, BUT I DON’T SEE MUCH EVIDENCE OF HIS SOUL TAKING FLIGHT TO THE VERY CORPOREAL ABOVE-GROUND. THAT’S JUST SUPERSTITION, AS FAR AS I CAN TELL. YOU DON’T HAVE TO KEEP UP THE MASQUERADE WITH ME.”
Curtis was taken aback. “Aren’t you, like, the religious leader?”
“I’M A PROPHETESS,” said the Sibyl. “KIND OF THE SAME, KIND OF DIFFERENT. AS FAR AS I CAN TELL, MY JOB IS TO SEEK THE TRUTH, BY WHICH I CAN BETTER COUNSEL MY LEADERS. AND IN MY SEARCHINGS, I’VE NOT HAD A WHOLE LOT OF EVIDENCE THAT SUCH A THING AS THE OVERWORLD EXISTS. AT LEAST NOT IN THE WAY THAT WE UNDERWOOD MOLES SEE IT.”
“So why did you …,” began Prue.
Curtis finished for her: “Say all those things back there, about his afterlife?”
“TRADITION,” said the Sibyl. “FAITH. IT’S AN AWFULLY BEAUTIFUL IDEA, ISN’T IT? I’M FOND OF THE POETRY OF IT. AS LONG AS IT’S NOT DOING ANYONE ANY HARM, I DON’T SEE THE REASON FOR PULLING THE VEIL AWAY. BESIDES, I’VE NEVER BEEN TO THIS OVERWORLD OF YOURS. DON’T THINK I’D BE ABLE TO SAY ANYTHING DEFINITIVELY UNTIL I HAD EVIDENCE.” The Mole marked the two children’s confusion. “IT’S COMPLICATED,” she said. “SOMETHING I’M WORKING ON. HOWEVER: I CAN SAY FOR CERTAIN THAT IT’S NICE TO BE BREATHING CLEAN CAVERN AIR AGAIN. I’VE BEEN LOCKED UP IN THAT DUNGEON SO LONG, AT THE BECK AND CALL OF THAT IDIOT, DENNIS MOLE.”
“Right,” said Curtis. “At least … that.”
“WALK WITH ME,” suggested the Sibyl. “I’M NOT SURE OUR MOLE FOOD WILL SATIATE YOUR OVERDWELLER APPETITES, BUT THERE IS A BANQUET TO BE HAD. AND I’M SURE YOU’LL BE EXPECTED THERE; YOU ARE GREAT HEROES IN THIS STORY.”
She approached the City of Moles, carefully watching each footfall so as to avoid adding any undue bloodshed to the chaos.
They did so, though walking with the mole was more akin to walking in slow motion as they allowed the Sibyl to keep pace with their gargantuan steps. Septimus strode proudly at her side, the darning needle still hanging at his waist. It was the only remnant of his battle attire.
“I SUSPECT YOU’LL BE WANTING DIRECTIONS TO THE REALM OF THE SOUTHERN OVERDWELLERS, CORRECT?” asked Gwendolyn as they walked. “BARTHOLOMEW HAS TOLD ME AS MUCH. THAT WAS THE DEAL?”
“Yes,” said Curtis. “Thanks for remembering.”
“We have friends—Overdwellers—who have gone missing,” said Septimus. “Long story; but we have to find them. Somehow.”
“And you know the way?” asked Prue.
“I DO. AS I SAID: IN MY SEARCHINGS, MY TRAVELS, I’VE DISCOVERED MANY SECRETS HIDDEN IN THIS PLACE WE CALL THE UNDERWOOD. IT WAS I, IN FACT, WHO FIRST FOUND THE ARCHITECT AND BROUGHT HIM TO THE RUINED CITY OF MOLES. THIS WAS BEFORE I WAS MADE SIBYL, WHEN I WAS JUST A WANDERER, CURIOUS ABOUT THE WORLD THAT SURROUNDED ME.”
“Who was he, this architect?” asked Prue. It was a question that had been swirling in her brain, ever since she’d clapped eyes on the City of Moles, with its incredible array of man-made junk repurposed as buildings, monuments, and thoroughfares.
“HE WAS AN OVERDWELLER, LIKE YOURSELF. I FOUND HIM IN ONE OF THE DEEPEST RECESSES OF THE UNDERWOOD. FINDING LIFE IN THAT DARK ABYSS WAS THE LAST THING I EXPECTED, I CAN TELL YOU. I’D NEVER GONE SO DEEP IN MY EXPLORATIONS. YOU CAN IMAGINE MY SURPRISE. HE
WAS IN TERRIBLE SHAPE; HE’D BEEN CAST OUT BY HIS PEOPLE. WHAT’S MORE, WHOEVER HAD DECIDED HIS FATE HAD ALSO TAKEN THE VERY ODIOUS EXTRA MEASURE OF SEVERING HIS HANDS FROM HIS ARMS.”
“Eugh,” said Prue, reflexively.
“I NOURISHED HIM TO HEALTH, USING THOSE VERY SAME BRICKS OF OVERDWELLER RATION AS I UNDERSTAND YOU WERE GIVEN.”
Septimus’s stomach grumbled at the mention. “Sorry,” he said.
Gwendolyn continued, “ONCE HE WAS HEALTHY ENOUGH TO TRAVEL, I BROUGHT HIM BEFORE THE MOLE COUNCIL. HE WAS TREMENDOUSLY THANKFUL FOR WHAT I’D DONE. I SUPPOSE I’D SAVED HIS LIFE. HE PROMISED TO REPAY THE MOLES IN KIND BY REBUILDING THE CITY, WHICH HAD BEEN REDUCED TO ALMOST COMPLETE RUBBLE BY THE SEVEN POOL EMPTYINGS WAR. HE SAID THAT HE’D DONE SIMILAR WORK IN THE OVERWORLD, THAT HE’D BUILT THINGS WITH HIS HANDS. AMAZING, BEAUTIFUL THINGS. AND WHILE HE’D BEEN DEPRIVED OF THE TWO TOOLS ON WHICH HE MOST DEPENDED, HIS VERY HANDS, HE THOUGHT HE COULD STILL MANAGE WITH THE AID OF THE MOLES. IT WAS TRUE: WHILE HE HAD NO HANDS, WE HAD NO EYES. TOGETHER, WE WORKED SYMBIOTICALLY.
“IN MY EXPLORATIONS, I’D FOUND A PASSAGE THAT, AFTER MANY WEEKS OF MOLE-TRAVEL, LED TO WHAT THE OVERDWELLERS CALL ‘SUNLIGHT.’ INDEED, TO THE OVERWORLD ITSELF—THOUGH FAR OFF TO THE EAST. I TOLD HIM OF THIS PASSAGE, AND HE BEGAN TO USE IT TO FORAGE FOR CASTOFF OVERDWELLER ITEMS. HE RAN LONG STRANDS OF ELECTRIC CABLE FROM THE OVERWORLD TO GIVE POWER TO THE LIGHTS THAT TODAY ILLUMINATE THE CHAMBER—THOUGH CERTAINLY OF NO USE TO THE MOLES. AND HE SET ABOUT REBUILDING OUR GREAT CITY. IT TOOK HIM MANY WEEKS. WE WORKED TIRELESSLY WITH HIM, BEING HIS HANDS. AND, IN A SINGLE EMPTYING AND REFILLING OF THE POOL, WE’D MANAGED TO NOT ONLY REBUILD THE CITY, BUT IMPROVE IT FAR MORE THAN ANYONE COULD’VE IMAGINED.
“IN OUR THANKS, THOUGH THE ARCHITECT INSISTED WE OWED HIM NONE, OUR BEST MOLE SMITHS CRAFTED TWO GOLDEN HOOKS THAT HE MIGHT USE IN PLACE OF HIS MISSING HANDS. NEEDLESS TO SAY, I COULD HEAR THE TEARS FALLING FROM HIS EYES WHEN HE BID US ADIEU. AND THEN HE WAS GONE. HE FOLLOWED THOSE POWER LINES THAT HE HAD LAID OUT INTO THE SUNLIGHT OF THE OVERWORLD, AND WE HAVEN’T HEARD FROM HIM SINCE.”
“Wow,” said Curtis. “What a story.” They’d arrived at the front gates of the City of Moles; Curtis was able to look at it in a completely different light. He started seeing the entirety of the amazing structure for what it was: a million little salvaged pieces, all meticulously crafted together to create a fluid, working whole.
Prue was chewing on her lower lip, which almost always meant that there was some bigger thought brewing in her mind. Curtis eyed her suspiciously. She then knelt down so as to be closer to the Sibyl when she asked, “Did he ever tell you what he had done to be exiled? From the Overworld?”
“HE DID, YES.”
“And what was it?”
“A STRANGE CASE, TO SAY THE LEAST. THERE’S NO ACCOUNTING FOR OVERDWELLER FANCIES. AN OVERDWELLER QUEEN, GONE MAD, HAD COMMISSIONED HIM TO BUILD A MECHANICAL REPLICA OF HER DEAD SON.”
Septimus hiccuped, loudly. Prue nearly fell over.
“WHEN HE’D FINISHED, THE OVERDWELLER QUEEN HAD HIM EXILED SO HE WOULD NEVER REVEAL THE SECRET OF THE BOY’S EXISTENCE TO THE OVERWORLD. AND, SO THAT HE COULD NEVER CRAFT ANOTHER PIECE TO RIVAL IT, SHE HAD THE ARCHITECT’S HANDS CHOPPED OFF.”
“Oh my God,” said Prue, a look of sudden realization lighting her face. Septimus was still hiccuping. Curtis, absorbed in the Sibyl’s words, told her to continue.
“THAT’S NOT THE WORST OF IT,” said the Sibyl, shaking her head at the folly of the Overdwellers. “THERE WAS A SECOND MAKER; HE AND THE ARCHITECT WORKED TOGETHER TO CRAFT THE BOY. THIS ONE WAS EXILED AS WELL. BUT THIS ONE, THE QUEEN FIRST HAD HIM BLINDED. BOTH EYES. POPPED OUT.”
The noise of the banquet could be heard within the city walls. Someone was singing a high, lonesome tune, to which the gathered revelers were hollering along. The Sibyl was still shaking her head. “BLIND,” she said, “AS A MOLE.”
Carol’s eyes were on the kitchen table. Elsie was staring at them, strangely mystified. She poked at one with a nearby butter knife; it wobbled a little on the wooden surface. For some reason, they continued to gross her out. Not because they were a prosthetic for the old man’s missing eyes—she’d been around enough people with synthetic limbs—but because they seemed so puppetlike. And she always felt like they were looking at her, suspiciously.
Morning had come; the sun had again risen on the in-between world, though by Elsie’s reckoning it must still be the same as the day before. Her head spun as it tried to grapple with the idea that, while the days and nights tumbled one into another, the hours never actually shifted forward in time. It didn’t seem to have an effect on her body yet, though there was this strange twinge in her mind, a quiet shake, that told her things were not as they should be. And the eyes were still staring at her.
“Good morning!” came a voice behind her. It was Carol.
“Hi, Carol,” said Elsie. “You left these here. On the table.”
She grabbed his arm and led his hand to the pair of eyes. “Ah,” he said. “Thanks. Was wonderin what I’d did with those.” He gamely popped them back into the twin cavities on either side of his red, ruddy nose. They swiveled there a moment before settling, and the old man smiled. “There we go. Ready for the day.”
“Can you, like, see better?” Elsie kicked herself as soon as the words came out. Of course he couldn’t see better. He was blind.
Thankfully, the old man took her question in stride. “Not that I can tell,” he said, laughing. “Maybe I just feel a little more—I don’t know—complete with ’em in. How’d you sleep, hon?”
Elsie felt at a sore shoulder. “Okay, I guess,” she said. The bed assigned her was one of the drawers of a wardrobe in the dining room. She wasn’t the only one in the wardrobe—she had upstairs and downstairs neighbors in the other drawers. As a consequence, they all had to sleep with their drawers pushed in, which gave the arrangement a fairly coffinlike feel. “How about you?”
“Can’t complain,” said Carol. Rachel appeared at the top of the stairs. She was in the process of flattening the rat’s nest that was her hair; she was using a brush made out of pine needles, and it didn’t seem to be doing a particularly good job.
“You guys ready?” she asked as she arrived in the kitchen.
“As we’ll ever be,” proclaimed Carol. “And I’d be awfully appreciative if I could count on the steady arms of two such lovely girls as you.” He proffered his elbows. Elsie and Rachel each took one. “All right then,” he said. “Let’s go see the great Mehlberg Road.”
On the porch, Michael and Cynthia were waiting, leaning up against the opposing posts on either side of the steps. Martha was there too, her goggles gamely set on her forehead.
“What are you up to?” asked Rachel as she and her sister eased the blind man out onto the planks of the porch. It was still very early; only the first shimmers of dawn were making their way through the trees.
“Coming along. I want to see this road,” said Martha.
Michael and Cynthia exchanged glances; Elsie spoke up. “I thought no one was supposed to know about this. What about the little ones …?”
“Oh, come on,” said Martha. “I’m as old as you are. Besides, everyone’s talking. All the kids know. You found a road. One that’s probably outside the Periphery.”
Carol frowned. “They should be counseled to keep their expectations low. This ‘road’ sighting has not been confirmed.”
“Well, you ought to do that soon,” said Martha. “Everyone’s awake and waiting to hear the news.”
“Cynthia, would you mind staying behind and speaking to the rest of the children? Explain the situation to them.” Carol shifted in his worn shoes; Elsie gripped his elbow as he eased down the steps to the grass of the yard. He sensed Cynthia’s disappointment; she looked at Michael and gave a kind of huffy sigh. “Cynthia, do this thing. The young ones look up to you.”
“Okay, Carol,” she said finally.
“Martha, you’ll round out our reconnaiss
ance party. Quickly, let’s be on the move. I don’t walk as fleetly as I used to, and we don’t want this road disappearing before we can get to it, do we?” Carol winked one of his wooden eyes at Elsie.
And so, they set out.
They soon arrived in the cottonwood clearing, the small meadow where Rachel, Elsie, and Martha had first spotted the pack of dogs. From there, Elsie took up the lead, winding through the soaring conifers and the bare, twiggy fingers of the drooping maples. They moved slowly, hampered by Carol’s careful movements, and Elsie, in her enthusiasm, would find herself getting too far ahead of the rest of the party. Finally, she decided it would be best if she just stayed at Carol’s side. She took Rachel’s spot at his elbow; Martha had taken his other. Michael, his pipe firmly clenched in his teeth, followed behind.
There was no rabbit to lead their way now, and though Elsie had found the road twice without the animal’s aid, it was still tricky to find the spot where her vine-tied tree trunks began. At one point, at the edge of a shallow culvert, Elsie had to stop and reflect. “This wasn’t part of it,” she said. “I don’t remember this part.”
A resigned puff of air sounded from the back of the group. It was Michael. “At what point,” he said, somewhat caustically, “do we call this off? Or are we going to be wandering the Periphery all day? To be honest, following the girl’s lead, I’m a little concerned we’re going to stumble into some undiscovered bit and be stuck there forever.”
“She knows where she’s going,” Rachel struck back. “I saw it. With my own eyes.” She then turned to her sister. “C’mon, Els, think. Which way?”
“Patience, children,” chided Carol. “No sense in bickering over it. There is no shame in having fallen prey to an illusion. This forest offers up many tricks.”
“It wasn’t an illusion,” said Elsie, before grabbing Carol’s elbow and drawing him away from the edge of the culvert. “This way. I’m sure of it.”
