The Ever Breath (22 page)

“Wilward!” Milta interrupted. “These aren’t more prisoners that you can set to work. These are my captives! The ones who think they’re going to take back the Ever Breath and free Cragmeal.”

“Oh!” he said, and then his eyes fell on Binderbee. “Wait, you! You’re supposed to be on
our
side! Us versus Them!”

“And what are you doing here with the enemy?” Binderbee shouted. “Us versus
who
?”

“Don’t you criticize me! This is a means to an end. Sometimes you have to do bad things to make good things happen!”

“You use fear to hold people hostage, to get more power
just like the enemy.” Binderbee strained against the webs that held back his small arms. “But you do it to your own people. You trick them, which makes you even worse than the enemy!”

Dobbler turned to Milta. “You talked me into having Cragmeal stuffed. Why not stuff the rest of them too so he won’t be lonesome?”

“Always thinking of others, Dobbler. That’s what makes you so admirable!”

Binderbee backed away, hiding behind Otwell’s boots.

There was some busy talk then—Milta and Dobbler trying to decide just how to kill them. He preferred something quick. The construction was coming along swiftly and he didn’t want to waste time. She preferred something a little more creative. “A devilish kind of contraption that chops them up!”

“If they’re chopped up,” the music maker interrupted, “then it’ll be hard to stuff them. So much stitching!”

Truman wasn’t sure exactly when Binderbee stiffened his tail and used it to pick apart the webbing on himself, but the mouse was quick. He scurried up Otwell’s pant leg first, nibbling through the webbing with his sharp teeth, and then he moved on down the line until they were all standing there, completely still, as if their wrists were still tied, when in fact they weren’t.

The only problem of course was Truman and Camille’s father. If they started a fight, he might get jostled, and even the slightest shift could dislodge the Ever Breath, sending it to the floor of the cage, where it would shatter.

But they also knew that they didn’t have much time. The
pedestal hand in the passageway at Ickbee’s house—it had to be closing, quickly.

They all exchanged nervous glances.
What now?

At that moment, Truman noticed one of the spiders. It was a large, hairy spider, much like the others. But this one seemed angrier, more determined. He was moving quickly from spider to spider, whispering something. Soon, all of the spiders were moving—silently but swiftly—as Milta and Dobbler were fighting about efficiency and creativity and power and the art of living.

“This isn’t just some stupid hobby of mine, you know,” Milta was saying. “I’m not a little kid! I’m an artist! This is my art!”

“We’ve got a job to do,” Dobbler countered. “Once you have real power, you can create all the deathly art you want.”

Some of the spiders were detaching the webs from Cragmeal while others were reinforcing the webbing around the Ever Breath—so much so that it disappeared in a white cocoon.

And when they were done, the spider leader seemed to give Truman a nod.

And then the sign came.

With Binderbee secure in his breast pocket, Otwell Prim, the Ogre of the Webbly Wood, grabbed his sword, swung it over his head, and let out an enormous whoop.

Coldwidder and Artwhip had their daggers out in no time. The vultures were upon them with talons and beaks. There were glinting blades and quick-swiping claws.

Otwell was spinning and turning—a dervish with a sword. Binderbee burrowed down in his pocket, where he could hear the ogre’s heart pounding in his chest. A few times Binderbee peeked out to see the sword swishing on this side and then the other. There were three vultures attacking Otwell at the same time. But he kept pivoting. Feathers were flitting through the air madly.

Dobbler hid behind the stuffed reindeer, but Milta ran to the wall of weapons and grabbed a long, thin sword. She laughed and spun around the room. “Oh, impromptu art! This is such a whimsical kind of killing! I’d like to start with the children!”

The music maker wrung his hands and skittered behind one of the velvet curtains. “Be careful!” he cried. “No one can hurt Milta! That is the rule!”

Truman and Camille ran to the wall too, grabbing
swords to protect themselves. Milta was so quick and agile, even under the weight of her hump, that they were both struggling to block her quick jabs. The locust fairies were dithering nervously all around her, their wings making her sound electrified.

Truman and Camille dodged behind the stuffed blood-betaker and the wolven man.

“Help!” Dobbler screamed into the passageway. “Help us! We’re being attacked!”

In the distance could be heard heavy footfalls, the clinking of chains. The footfalls grew louder and louder and then the room was filled with prisoners. There were wolves and horned men and horse-heads and snake-heads and glowskins and urfs and weaselwomen—every kind of creature you can imagine—chained together and covered in dirt.

Their warden was standing there, looking nervous and shaken. “Sir,” he said, “are you sure that this is wise?”

“I order all of you to protect us from these evildoers! If you do, I’ll set you all free!” Dobbler screamed. He was gripping the stuffed reindeer’s fur and crying. “It’s Us versus Them!”

Everyone froze.

A wolf stood up on his hind legs, walked over to the wall, pulled off a double-sided sword, and passed it down the chain. “Us versus who?” he asked. And he pulled off more weapons and passed them down.

“Us versus Them!” Dobbler cried.

In the meantime, Cragmeal had been quietly working. He’d gotten the key off the hook by fishing with his belt, had inched his fingers to it, pinched it, and pulled it into the
cage, and now he unlocked the cage door. He reached up and pulled the cocooned Ever Breath from the ceiling of his cage and stepped into the room.

“We don’t believe in
us
and
them,”
Cragmeal said. “We’re jarkmen.”

And with that, Milta screamed, “No! It’s mine!” With all of her might, she ran and leapt through the air, her sword held firm. The locust fairies went fluttering off behind her like billowing smoke, and when Cragmeal dodged her, she went flying. She landed, took a few jerky steps, and then ran into the horn of the unicorn, which pierced the meat of her shoulder and sent her falling backward onto the floor. And …

There lay a little girl in a red dress with a long, thin sword in her hand. There was no hump at all—only a sack. An old tattered sack. It had come loose and its contents were spilled across the floor.

There were two photographs—one of each of her sisters—an old jar with holes poked in its rusty lid, and a snow globe. She hadn’t smashed it after all. She’d carried it with her all these years.

“Her sad sack,” Camille said.

Dobbler hid his head in his hands and cried.

Everyone else gathered around Milta, worrying whether she was alive or dead.

The music maker appeared from behind the curtain. “Milta!” he cried, and he ran to her side and gathered all of her things and put them back in her sack. “No,” he said, “you can’t see her like this! No!”

He grabbed the long, thin sword. “Back up,” he said. “Get away!”

Everyone shuffled backward, and then he whistled through his teeth and the locust fairies covered her in a cloak and also lifted her up, as if on a fluttering white cloud, and carried her to the unfinished passageway, the one that likely led nowhere.

“It’s okay, my girl,” he said. “It’s okay!”

Truman and Camille followed their father out of the room, into the echoey cave. He had the Ever Breath clutched to his heart. Artwhip, Coldwidder, Otwell, and Binderbee were on their heels. All of them were still fighting off the vultures that were dive-bombing them with their talons and beaks.

But mainly the vultures had to contend with the prisoners, who were free now. The warden had let them all loose. He’d had no choice. He and Dobbler had already been shoved into Cragmeal’s cage for safekeeping.

“We’ve got to get Truman and Camille back down the mountain fast!” their father shouted.

“But how?” Truman said.

They came to a skidding stop at the edge of the cave—the waterfall pouring down from overhead in front of them and the white rapids below.

Artwhip shook his head. “We need some help,” he said.

Just then a cloud of smoke rose up around them and there, fluttering up from the mist, was Chickie—her wings unfurled and flapping wildly.

“You can fly!” Otwell cried.

She heaved herself onto the moist ledge to the right of the falls.

“Okay, then,” their father said. “You two have to go. She can’t take any more weight than that.” He grabbed them and the three children embraced. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I should have figured out a way so you wouldn’t have had to—”

“It’s okay,” Camille said.

“We understand now,” Truman said.

And with that they climbed on Chickie’s back, Truman holding tight to the amber orb.

“Oh,” Camille said, “one more thing. The best way to survive jumping off a waterfall. Hands locked over your head. Jump far enough out to avoid the rocks and start swimming hard right away, downstream.”

“And call for Erswat!” Truman said. “Once you’re in the water, call her name.”

“Erswat!” Artwhip said. “Of course!”

Camille held the reins and Truman held the Ever Breath, and with a frantic effort, Chickie flapped her wings and they took off in a sputtery motion.

Chickie huffed and smoked and let out noxious fumes, but she was drifting in the right direction, heading downhill.

“Oh no!” Camille cried. “I’ll never get used to flying like this!”

“Distract yourself,” Truman said. “And don’t close your eyes. It only makes it worse.”

From this perch, Truman and Camille could see the snowy fields, the forest paths, the river, and the bog.

And soon enough they saw a tiny caved-in hut of brittle, broken mud and broken vines. Chickie alighted in the front yard and then collapsed.

“You did good!” Truman shouted, holding tight to the Ever Breath.

Camille put her hands on her knees for a second, regaining her strength. And then they both ran to the door, which had snapped in two under the strain of the house and left a gaping hole. They crawled inside and found that they had to keep crawling. The roof had nearly completely caved in. The air was dusty and dry, which made Camille cough. “I’m allergic to everything here!”

There were a few mewlers still roaming.

“Praddle?” Truman called.

Then he heard her voice. “Thisss way,” she hissed.

They crawled toward her voice and found her standing beside the small passageway.

“Where is Ickbee?” Camille asked.

“She’sss waiting for you.”

“In there?” Truman asked.

Praddle nodded.

And so Camille and Truman crawled down the passageway, Praddle following them. The passageway was narrow and shriveled—so tight they had to drag and dig and pull themselves along. Finally they saw a bit of light, and then they saw the room. It had shrunk so much that the hand itself was scraping the ceiling. It was almost completely curled into a fist—the only thing that remained was the smallest bit of air between the thumb curling over, about to lock it shut forever.

And there on either side of the hand were Ickbee and
Swelda, two old women in their wooly blue hats, holding the ceiling up with their bare hands. They were shaking. “Hurry,” they said in unison.

Truman held up the Ever Breath.

“There’s an important question to ask before you take this final step,” Swelda said. “Who will live in the Breath World and who will live in the Fixed? Do you know?”

Truman and Camille looked at each other and nodded.

Praddle paced between them.

“Whoever will live in the Fixed World needs to hold the Ever Breath with one hand on this side of the passageway,” Swelda said.

“And the one who’ll live in the Breath World will stand with me on the other,” Ickbee said.

Camille walked over to Swelda, and Truman stood by Ickbee, with Praddle nearby.

Each holding up one side of the orb, the twins lifted the Ever Breath and touched it to the thumb.

The hand quivered, then shook, and finally bloomed open, and the Ever Breath slipped back into its fingers.

The roots, all around them, rippled and then tightened like muscles, and the ceiling and walls were pulled back into place.

Truman and Camille stepped away, each on his or her side of the Ever Breath. Truman picked up Praddle.

“We did it,” Truman said.

“We did,” Camille said.

Ickbee grinned and Swelda wiped tears from her cheeks.

Camille pulled off her backpack and took out the two snow globes. She handed one to Truman.

Camille shook hers first. The snow globe showed Artwhip, Coldwidder, Otwell, and Binderbee being rescued from rapids and guided toward shore by a group of strong, lean bogpeople. Erswat was there, too, helping Artwhip keep his head above the churning water. Truman and Camille’s father had already made it to the muddy bank. He was wet and looked cold and shivery, but his mouth was shaped in a perfect O—as if, at that very moment, he was singing at the top of his lungs.

Truman shook his next. The snow swirled up and finally settled—on a face. A girl with blond curls and a curlicue scar on her cheek. She seemed to be asleep or worse—dead.

“Milta!” Swelda said.

Ickbee gasped and then gave a sad sigh.

The girl’s eyes fluttered open, and for a moment she looked surprised, almost happy. But then her face tightened into an angry, vengeful glare.

Milta was very much alive.