The Curse of Eelgrass Bog, page 17
It isn’t so bad, a voice says.
I jump, almost losing my grip on Shrunken Jim’s jar. A witch has appeared from behind a rock pillar, close enough that I can smell the moss-and-rot stench clinging to its fur-covered body. Live insects weave through its ankle-length hair.
You are missing something, the witch says softly, circling us. A centipede curls around its throat. I can feel the holes in your hearts. Don’t worry. This is the place of bargains and dreams. If you stay with us, we can teach you magic.
Back off, Shrunken Jim snarls. Keep walking, Kess.
I’m more than happy to listen to him. I chew the inside of my cheek to stop myself from gagging on the witch stench, and we go on. Around stalagmites and something that looks like a rhinoceros skull, except it’s double the size. But before I can concentrate on finding our curse, another witch materializes beside us. I jump and almost bite off my tongue in alarm.
A different bargain, perhaps, it purrs. How would you like the strength of ten?
A silver-skinned witch joins in. Stay, and we will show you how to conjure fire.
We will show you how to craft curses and charms of your own.
We will show you how to turn pebbles into diamonds.
We will show you how to speak with the dead.
Oliver stops.
I pivot back to face him. “Ollie. C’mon.”
“But what if it is possible?” His expression has gone faraway, bursting with hurt and hope. “What if we were right seventy years ago? Maybe there is magic that can let us see Mam and Da again.”
There is, there is, the witch chants. It reaches out a hand with seven webbed fingers. Stay here, and I can show you how.
“No,” I say, “we can’t! Remember what Holloway said? The longer we stay down here, the harder it’ll be to leave!”
“So? We’ve lost so much time already,” Oliver says. “What’s a little more, if we get to speak with Mam and Da?”
The magic in the air grows stickier. My head spins. Even though I’m scared, even though I can feel the tug of our curse somewhere nearby, even though I know we’re flies wandering through a spider’s web, a spark of yearning is growing in my chest too.
Don’t be stupid, Shrunken Jim growls. Walk away, both of you.
“But this is Mam and Da.” Oliver’s voice breaks. “We . . . I need them back.”
I shut my eyes and imagine Mam tucking me in at night, Da’s booming laughter, the four of us just . . . being a family together.
My fingers twitch toward the witch’s outstretched hand.
But Holloway and Shrunken Jim have warned us time and time again that magic is dangerous. The Drowned World didn’t give Holloway her sisters back. My parents could come back wrong, if they came back at all. And we could be stuck down here forever, while the real world spins onward without us.
The Drowned World devours people with promises, not teeth.
“Ollie,” I begin, opening my eyes, “I don’t think—”
But it’s too late. The space in front of me is empty, just chunks of gold-washed rock and the thrum of nearby curses.
Oliver is gone.
And so is the witch.
27
“No!” I cry. “No, no, no! Where’d he go?”
The witch could probably tell you were about to refuse, Shrunken Jim says grimly. It took what it could get. When Petulant Pedrock touched its hand, they both transported somewhere else.
“But where?”
Could be anywhere in the Drowned World. Perhaps we should consider him lost forever and move on.
I smack his jar in a panic. “Jim! We can’t just let him become some kind of sad, rotten witch who thinks he can raise the dead.”
Shrunken Jim’s mouth-stitches sag. Fine. That other witch was a silver-tongued liar of the worst variety. Raising the dead? Pah.
Even though I already decided the bargain was bad news, disappointment clenches my heart. “So . . . it is impossible, then?”
Ghosts are only echoes, Shrunken Jim says gently. Whatever that witch can raise, it won’t be your parents.
I take a breath. No looking back anymore. Only forward.
I gather my senses and turn around to try to find Oliver. That turns out to be easier said than done, because I can still feel the tug of the curse somewhere nearby. My body doesn’t want to start searching for something else. But I can’t—I won’t—break the curse without my brother.
It’s almost impossible to tell where they’ve gone. The light in the cavern is honey thick and syrupy with magic as I walk back the way I came. Witches follow me from the shadows, hissing promises at me, and I have to plug my ears to keep them at bay. I end up humming Mam’s old song to distract myself: Take my hand, oh my darling; we’ll outrun the dark. Shrunken Jim joins in too: Don’t go away now; you have stolen my heart. We hum together, over and over, blocking out the pull of the curse and the witches’ words. I manage to scale a small, high outcrop of rock to scan for Oliver, but there’s no sign of him. Just a near-endless space crammed with boats and bones and charms, lost things glittering and glimmering and chattering in a thousand forgotten tongues.
“Oliver!” I shout. “Ollie, where—”
My foot almost slips off the sloped edge of the outcrop. I stumble into the cave wall to keep myself from falling. But when my shoulder hits the rock, it’s softer than I expected. Too soft to be rock at all. And that’s when I notice something very, very unnatural.
There is a creature in the wall.
A strangled gasp escapes me as I crane my neck upward, taking it in. Gold-washed scales like the ones we found in the tunnel blend seamlessly with the rest of the cavern—except these scales are attached to a real, actual world-serpent. And it’s alive. I can see its ginormous body moving ever so slightly, breathing in and out, even though it’s basically fused with the rock. Even with my neck tipped all the way back, I can’t see its head.
“Oh,” I squeak. “How long has it been sleeping here?”
Shrunken Jim seems awed too. Forever, by the looks of it. Time moves differently for the megafauna.
Tentatively, I reach out a hand. Then I stop myself. What did Holloway say? The Drowned World doesn’t like when magic is broken or taken away. There are creatures down there that could react to the disturbance. Creatures that are dangerous enough to cause damage to Eelgrass Bog and Wick’s End. I’m starting to understand what she meant. If this giant serpent woke up, it would collapse half the Drowned World. If we plan on breaking our curse, best not to disturb the megafauna more than necessary.
I keep walking, a new nervousness settled into my bones. How many other monsters are hidden in the walls?
Sure, this place is wondrous, but every minute we’re here is another minute we’re in danger. Real danger. And worst of all I have no idea where Oliver is or what I’m doing.
I hum Mam’s song louder, clambering over boulders that feel as though they’re breathing too. Around a too-big whale skeleton. Through a maze of rocky pillars pockmarked with moving, swirling fossils. Soon I’ve passed the entrance to the bone staircase, and I find myself walking a narrow path right along the golden river’s edge. The thrum of magic is so loud, I can hardly hear myself humming anymore. To keep the fright at bay, I pretend I’m searching for Oliver inside the Unnatural History Museum, that I’m bumping into display cases instead of stalagmites, and the strange hisses belong to grouchy pipes instead of witches. It almost works. Even though my brain still feels foggy, even though my heart is still banging in my throat, I manage to stay focused. I manage to remember why I’m here.
And then I spot them. My brother and the webby witch. They’re backed up against a smaller cavern, hidden from the river’s glow. The witch is hissing in a low voice. Oliver glances nervously around, eyes magic-glazed.
“Don’t be a turnip, Ollie!” I yell, tripping over a pile of old boots as I hurry toward him. “C’mon, we need to go!”
His head jerks, startled. But he doesn’t move anywhere.
Let him make his choice, the witch snarls.
“It’s not worth it,” I say to Oliver when I reach him, ignoring the witch. “You fought so hard to save your memories—to stay who you are. Don’t give that up.”
“But . . . Mam and Da . . .”
“They wouldn’t want this,” I pant. “We have to hold on to the happy times we already had.”
Oliver looks ready to cry. “That’s just it. My notes . . . the work . . . it was practical stuff, important stuff, but I couldn’t remember it all. You got to keep our family photographs. And I . . . I tried, but I forgot those things. Happy things, I think. But I can’t remember.”
It’s okay, the witch whispers. It reaches out a webbed hand again. Stay. Let yourself forget the topside world.
No, Shrunken Jim snaps.
I stand on my toes until I’m eye to eye with Oliver. “So what if we’re both full of holes? There’s a whole future waiting for us, Ollie. If we break the curse, we can make new memories that we won’t forget.”
Think of your parents, the witch growls.
“Our parents are dead,” I say, although it breaks my heart to speak those words aloud. “They aren’t coming back.”
Oliver sobs.
“I know you did your best,” I continue, swallowing down a sob of my own. “With your paperwork and . . . and all that grown-up stuff they left behind. And I’m sorry I’m not the kind of sister you felt you could share that with.”
“That’s not . . .” Oliver looks stricken. “Kess, I—”
“We both chose the museum. But it’s about time we chose each other, right? You’re my brother.” I swipe a wobbly hand across my runny nose. “I don’t want to lose you too.”
He blinks hard. Tears streak through the mud on his cheeks. But when he opens his eyes again, they’re a little less glassy. A little more him. He takes a shuddery breath. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”
“No witch bargains?”
He hesitates. Then nods. “No witch bargains.”
Before I can feel too relieved, the witch gives a frustrated shriek. Ungrateful trespassers! Who do you think you are, turning down the Drowned World’s gifts?
Go! Shrunken Jim yells.
I don’t need telling twice. I grab Oliver’s sleeve and run—just as the witch lurches toward us with its needle-sharp teeth bared. And even though it runs like a broken puppet, it’s fast. It stays right on our heels, clawed hands outstretched.
To make matters worse, running through the Drowned World is a lot harder than walking. The rocky ground is slippery and uneven. Fear makes my legs wobbly. My boot snags in an old fishing net hidden beneath the shadows, but I shake it off and don’t slow down.
“Kess,” Oliver wheezes, tripping along beside me, “you can . . . let go . . . of my arm. It’s . . . I’m fine.”
I shoot him a suspicious glare. Then I trip again and have to let go of Oliver to prevent both of us from face-planting into the golden river. But he doesn’t turn back to the witch, who is still only a couple of paces behind us. He just pushes me in front of him and keeps running. I follow the magnetic tug in my chest, imagining an invisible thread guiding our way toward the curse. Still the witch doesn’t stop chasing us. No matter how our path zigzags, no matter how fast we run, it sticks close on our heels, gnashing its teeth. My breath comes in panicky gasps. What happens if it catches us?
Try to squeeze under that arch, Shrunken Jim says urgently. You’re smaller; you should—
“Duck!” Oliver yells suddenly.
He shoves me aside just as the witch lurches close enough to swipe a webbed hand through the air, narrowly missing my ear.
Where will you go? the witch hisses. There’s no way out.
Heart beating about a thousand times per minute, I stumble upright. Now that we’ve slowed, the witch has us both within grabbing distance. It really is terrifying. Webbed fingers with pointy nails. Teeth jutting yellow and crooked from slimy, pale lips. Eyes black from end to end. No wonder Dr. Stoat still has nightmares about witches. I’ve been armed with tales of the unnatural since I could walk, but fear still grips my bones. I don’t want to be stuck down here forever. I don’t want to become a witch. I really, really don’t.
My breath wheezes—I’m struggling to get enough air in my lungs. The narrow arch Shrunken Jim pointed out is up ahead, but I’m not sure I can race the witch. I definitely can’t keep running for much longer. So I gather my fierceness and scream, “Go away! Leave us alone!”
Or what? the witch growls. What could two topside children possibly do?
“The curse,” Oliver interrupts, jaw slackening. “Kess, I think it’s here. In the rocks.”
An electric jolt shivers through me. He’s right. Through the fear, I can feel a tug banging against my rib cage. But the witch has us cornered. I take another step backward. The witch grins.
On your left, Shrunken Jim whispers, there is something very pointy.
I blink. “What?”
There’s no time for him to answer. The witch lunges. I seize whatever pointy thing was hidden in the rock beside me. And without thinking, I swing it hard at the witch’s skull. The witch shrieks and collapses into a dazed pile, inches from my feet.
Gasping, I look at the thing in my hand. I’m expecting—and hoping—to see a sword.
“A tent pole,” Oliver puffs. “Cute.”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
Not for long, Shrunken Jim warns.
Sure enough, the witch is already stirring. I look between the honeycombed rock and Oliver, keeping the tent pole clenched in my fist just in case.
“Go on, Kess,” Oliver says. He’s doubled over, trying to catch his breath. “You’re the expert in finding unnatural objects. I’ll watch the witch. You . . .” He gestures at the rocks.
I gulp. Then I give Oliver the tent pole and set Shrunken Jim’s jar on a boulder. It’s here. I can feel it. It’s making my insides fizz and buzz, like I’m approaching a live wire. Carefully, carefully, I crouch on my heels. I reach into a fist-sized hole inside the rock, tensed up in case I touch something alive. My palm skims across smooth stone.
And I find the curse.
As soon as I touch it, I know. It’s got an angriness to it, like there’s seventy years of resentment and guilt squashed inside. But there’s a spark of love too. The part of the curse that was meant to protect us. The part that somehow got buried under everything else.
It isn’t particularly large or grand. Just a knotted wreath made from dried reeds, shards of broken glass, a couple of delicate songbird feet, and locks of hair.
Oliver inhales sharply when I pull it free. “What now?” he asks. “How do we break it?”
Same as you break anything, Shrunken Jim says.
“Then what will happen?”
I turn the curse over in my palm. Perhaps we’ll wake the monsters in the cave walls. Perhaps we’ll immediately age seventy years. We could emerge onto Eelgrass Bog grizzled and wrinkled. Or we might turn to dust right here and now. But maybe, if we break it with enough hope in our hearts, we might get to walk away and enjoy a life full of things we’ll actually remember.
There’s only one way to find out.
The witch stirs, hissing through its sharp teeth. It’s still unconscious. For now.
Swallowing, I press the curse into Oliver’s hand. My fingers stay clasped around a clump of braided reeds. “Ready?”
“No,” he admits.
I try to grin. “Be brave, Ollie.”
“I don’t feel very brave.”
“Me neither.”
“But I guess feeling brave isn’t a requirement for being brave.” Oliver almost manages to grin back. “That’s what Da would say, at least.”
Very wise, Shrunken Jim snaps. Now hurry up.
“On three?” I say.
Oliver swallows. “One.”
Two, Shrunken Jim says.
The cavern falls silent. It’s like the whole Drowned World has held its breath, all the witches and monstrous things peering in to see what will happen next.
I bite my tongue. “Three,” I say.
Oliver and I tug sharply.
And the curse breaks.
28
“Do you know what an endling is, Kess? Why we chose to call ourselves the Endling Society?”
“No. Oliver doesn’t tell me anything.”
“It means the last survivor of a species. When the endling dies, the whole species goes extinct. Can you imagine anything lonelier than being the last of your kind, knowing it’s too late to save anyone? Knowing the story ends with you?”
“Like that thylacine at the zoo?”
“Exactly.”
“Jules, this really isn’t cheering me up.”
“Don’t you see? It should be impossible to have a society of endlings. But no matter how terrible things seem, no matter how much you feel like your story is ending, you aren’t alone. That’s what makes the Endling Society special. Not digging up monster bones or discovering underground worlds. Just . . . being alive, together. Even when it seems impossible.”
I gasp and stumble over. A thousand memories wash over me in waves. Seventy years’ worth of lost moments, all coming back at once. Laughter. Tears. Bonfires. Picnics. Slammed doors. Screams into pillows. Faces. Songs. Voices.
“Listen, Kess, your father and I have been asked to investigate something unnatural happening in Antarctica. It won’t be long, only a few weeks, but it’s important that you and your brother look out for each other until—”
“No,” I cry. “Don’t go!”
But before I can warn them, another memory hits, and we’re spinning through the reeds, round and round until the stars are fiery slashes above. We’re howling, laughing, wild as the storm above, Oliver and his best friend and the strange new girl from the spider-house—
