The Ever Breath (9 page)

Swelda didn’t answer. “Here’s a sack lunch,” she said. She turned Camille around, unzipped her backpack, and stuck a brown paper bag inside. “Keep track of the snow globe, of course. It will be of great use!”

Camille was still a little dazed. “I saw Truman inside it.”

“What was he up to?”

“He was walking through a forest.”

“Oh drat!”

“And last night there was a woman peeking out of a little house that seemed covered with roots and vines.”

“My sister’s house, yes. That’s where you’re off to now.” Swelda shoved Camille toward the door.

“But why do things change in the snow globe?”

“Life changes, doesn’t it?”

“Is it showing me things going on somewhere else right now, or is it predicting things?”

“Yes, both, and sometimes you look inside and can see the past. These three snow globes are nimble like that. When you least expect, they will sting you with a memory….” Her voice drifted off as if she had some memories she’d rather not be stung by again.

“I hate to interrupt you, deep in thought like that, but how do I
get
to the Breath World?” Camille said, impatient.

“Ah, yes! Go out into the yard, around back, to the cellar. There you’ll find the passageway. Follow it to the Breath World. My sister will be waiting.”

“Your twin sister? The one in the picture?”

“Yes. Ickbee is her name. There is more to the tasting tale, but I’ll let her tell it.” She stood up straight, closed her eye, and smiled. “Yes, yes, she’ll be ready for you. I see her dithering around, preparing your arrival.”

“But why is all of this happening now?” Camille asked.

“Didn’t I tell you already?”

Camille shook her head.

“The Ever Breath was protected by an enchantment cast on Ickbee’s house and mine,” Swelda whispered. “But someone broke the enchantment and the Ever Breath is gone. Have you noticed that this house is about to fall in?”

Camille glanced around. “Well, I didn’t want to say anything, but—”

“That’s why your father went to the Breath World. To find the Ever Breath. He will need you two there, to help return the Ever Breath to its rightful place.” And then she snapped her fingers over her head. “Oh, yes. I almost forgot,”
she said. She walked quickly to the bookcase, pulled out a heavy tome, and took out a small photograph. She handed it to Camille. “You might need this.”

It was a picture of a boy about Camille’s age. “Who is it?”

“It’s your father when he was twelve years old. We haven’t had any communication from him for a few days. He’s been in dangerous territory, trying to get the Ever Breath back. I’m sure he’ll be fine. But when you see him again, this is the person you’ll be looking at in the Breath World. Your father as a boy.”

Startled, Camille looked up at Swelda. “What do you mean?”

“We all have our magical afflictions.”

“Magical afflictions?”

“Your father is a forever child. He could have lived in the Breath World and stayed a boy forever. But he chose not to.”

Camille held the photograph and stared at the image of her father. He looked a little like Truman, actually. She felt as if the fog outside had moved into her head. She felt dazed and scared. “But Truman and I aren’t magical,” she said slowly.

“Ah, but you come from the long line!”

“You said that before but we didn’t get it. The long line of what?”

“Gramarye,” Swelda whispered. “It’s an ancient term. Do you think that when the magical creatures were separated and cast out—the Exodus, as we say—do you think that those who could perform a bit of magic, those who could both enchant and curse, were allowed to stay here?”

“I guess not,” Camille said.

“You are of the Breath World, yes, a magical creature and one who can do some magic. Your magical afflictions just haven’t shown up yet, not in full.”

“I’m going to get magically afflicted. Is that what you’re saying? I mean, I knew we were kind of dysfunctional, but
afflicted
?”

“It’s part of growing up in this family.”

“Or part of
not
growing up,” Camille said, shaking her father’s photograph.

“I guess that’s true, in some cases.”

Camille put the photograph in the zippered pouch of her backpack and then looked down at her shoes. “I’m not sure I’m really the one you want doing this. I mean, I’m not as tough as I look.”

“You’re exactly the one. No one else in the worlds will do.” Swelda then took off her blue woolen hat and put it on Camille’s head. “Keep this with you. That way they’ll know you’re one of us. Ickbee will answer any other questions.”

Swelda pulled Camille’s coat off of the hall tree. The tree—it was such a strange thing. It couldn’t really be alive, surviving there in the dark house. Camille reached out quickly and touched its bark. It was as rough and real as that of any tree she’d ever touched. The tree seemed sickly, but alive. Very much so.

“Does this tree blossom in the spring?” Camille blurted out as she put on her coat.

“Of course! Beautiful pink blossoms. They carpet the hall for weeks! And clog the vacuum cleaner!” But then Swelda’s face grew serious and she patted the tree’s trunk. “I hope it
blossoms this year!” She then turned to Camille and gave her a quick hug. “Go quickly now. No time to waste.”

With a backward glance at the tree, Camille went to the front door and twisted the knob—which fell off in her hand. “Here,” she said, and handed it to her grandmother.

“Thanks,” Swelda said. She pushed open the front door and Camille stepped into the bright snowy world.

The next time Truman rounded the corner to catch up with the young man in the blue woolen hat, he smacked right into a bony chest and fell backward onto the ground. Praddle screeched, and Truman bobbled the snow globe. It nearly slipped from his hands.

“So sorry!” a voice from above said.

Truman looked up and there, standing over him, was the man in the blue woolen hat. He was younger than Truman had thought—only in his late teens or maybe his early twenties.

“Are you okay?” the young man asked. “Nearly broke that, didn’t you?” He extended his hand. Truman took it, and the young man helped him to his feet.

The man pulled his thin coat in tight to his ribs and yanked the blue wool hat down over his ears. “How’s the mewler?” he asked.

Truman brushed off Praddle’s fur and scooped her up. “She’s okay, I think.”

“Good to hear. All right, then. Glad all’s well. Have a
good day.” And with that, the young man headed on down the road.

“Wait!” Truman called. “Hold on!” The young man was striding away quickly. Truman ran to catch up. “Sir,” he said. “Um, excuse me!”

The young man turned around. He was very thin—so thin he’d had to tighten his belt to the last notch to keep his baggy woolen pants up. He had brown eyes—gentle eyes, really—and a nervous smile.

“Where are you going?” Truman asked.

“For a walk around the block. I’ve got a dinner appointment at Edwell’s, but I’m early.”

So it was almost dinnertime. Truman hadn’t realized how long it had taken to get down the mountain. No wonder he was hungry again. “Can I walk with you? I’ve got a few questions.”

The young man looked over his shoulder. “I don’t like questions,” he said. “They seem to always want answers.”

“Just a few.”

He hesitated. “What’s your name?”

“Truman. And this is Praddle.”

“I’m Artwhip,” the young man said, and then a locust fairy orbited his head. “Dang locust fairies!” he exclaimed, waving his hand around. “They can’t seem to get enough of me!”

The locust fairy buzzed Truman, who pivoted and ducked. “They like me too,” Truman said.

“So we have something in common.” Artwhip cast his eyes over the crowd, then gave a stiff nod. “Okay, kid. Come on.”

Truman tried to match the young man’s stride. “Where did you get that hat?” he asked.

They were walking down an alley, a shortcut back to the open-air market. The alley was dark. Strung overhead were carpets being aired, and they batted about in the cold wind, blocking Truman’s view.

“This? It’s just a present from my mother. Well, I think it’s from my mother. My landlady gave me the package this morning. It came with a note, but the landlady spilt chatter-broth tea all over the note while snooping, most likely.” He paused. “Well, that’s not fair, I guess. She’s only got paws, though, so she’s clumsy like that.”

“Oh,” Truman said, thinking that paws for hands would be a difficult way to go through life. “Does your mother knit?”

Artwhip shrugged. They’d come to the end of the alley and now moved into the crowded market. “Don’t all mothers knit?” He looked at the boy. “I thought you were going to ask me for money. I thought, well, in those strange clothes, the homemade jacket and shoes … Look, do you just want the hat? The weatherspy is predicting more snow.” He stopped and peered up at the sky.

Truman looked up too. “I don’t want the hat,” he said. “It’s just that … I’ve seen you before.”

“You have?”

“I think I’ve seen a future version of you.”

Artwhip stopped and stared at Truman and gave a quick laugh. “You’re a futurist, then?”

“A futurist?” People rushed by them. The hawkers were all shouting at the same time. Someone in an apartment overhead was practicing scales on a squeaky horn. “Something bad is going to happen,” Truman said.

This seemed to get the young man’s attention. “To me?”

“Yes,” Truman said. “I think it was you. I’m almost positive.”

Artwhip walked up to a news peddler—a fish-man with fluttery gills on his cheeks and neck, watery eyes, and a drooped, whiskered face. “Do you know what time it is?” Artwhip asked the peddler.

“Did you see the latest edition?” the peddler shouted at him, holding up a copy of a newspaper called
The Official Facts, Presented to You Daily by the Office of Official Affairs
. The man’s booth had one of the posters on it: the tough feathered man with the hawk’s beak glaring above the slogan
US VERSUS THEM
!
THE DIFFERENCE IS SIMPLE
! “They just put this news on the streets!”

On the front page of the newspaper was a photograph of a boy with a weary expression but neatly combed hair—a cross between a mug shot and a school photograph. The boy looked familiar. Truman leaned in closer. The brown hair, the look in the boy’s eyes—he was the boy that Truman had seen inside his snow globe. He was sure of it!

Artwhip read the headline aloud: “‘Cragmeal, King of the Jarkmen, Public Enemy Number One.’”

“Cragmeal?” Truman said. That was his family’s name! He leaned forward and started reading the news story.

Truman stared at the grainy photograph. Was it his father, as a boy? The boy bound in that awful museum and this boy, here, in the photograph? He felt breathless, the same way he’d felt when he fell into the cellar. It was like the beginning of an asthma attack. He reached for the inhaler he kept in his pocket, but of course he didn’t have it. His inhaler was in the pocket of his jeans at Swelda’s house, a world away.

Was his father a traitor, Public Enemy Number One? It wasn’t possible. He glanced at Artwhip, who was leaning over him reading the article as quickly as he could. Truman wondered what would happen to him if the people here knew that Cragmeal was his father. And what did the article mean, “former King of the Jarkmen”? His father wasn’t ever a king. He was the manager of three Taco Grills.

Praddle gave a hiss and tightened her grip on Truman’s shoulder. She didn’t like what she was reading either.

“They’re gonna get’m, but good,” the news peddler said,
and then he whispered to Artwhip, “What side do you stand on?”

Artwhip gave a little shake of his head. He wasn’t saying a word. Truman had the feeling it was a dangerous question.

The peddler didn’t wait for an answer anyway. He said loudly, “What kind of king was he anyways? Disloyal! A traitor to his people. Runnin’ off like he did. And now he’s back, lurking around, consorting with our enemies!” The news peddler’s teeth were jagged and his words sounded wet. He splayed his hand over the article and leaned in close to Truman’s face. “Stealing it with your eyes, are you? You don’t get to read it for free!”

Both Truman and Artwhip stepped away quickly.

Truman remembered the tasting tale. He felt it stirring inside him. If the Ever Breath fell into the wrong hands, everything was in jeopardy. In the Fixed World, dreaming and imagining would end, and in the Breath World, imagination would take over in bad ways, with evil beasts rising up—a kind of self-destruction. Truman grabbed hold of Artwhip’s sleeve.

Artwhip looked shaken. He gazed around as if disoriented. Sitting in a cage nearby was the man in the tweed suit from earlier. They’d circled the city and now were back in front of the spice shop.

The man in the tweed suit saw Artwhip’s hat and sucked in his breath. Quickly, he rolled up his sleeves, revealing arms covered with blinking eyes. “The hat!” the man whispered. “The blue hat!”

Artwhip ran his hand along his hat and then looked at
Truman. He seemed tired and confused. “I’ve got to be going now,” he said, and then he bowed politely and headed off.

“You can’t leave me!” Truman cried, running after him.

Artwhip dipped beneath the paper lanterns bobbing in the gusts of wind and hurried back down a cut-through alley strung with carpets.

Truman followed. “Wait! You’re going to get stabbed! I’ve seen it!”