Chapter Twenty-Seven
I turned around. My body lay behind me in the dirt. It had not landed gracefully. My cheek was pressed against the cold stone floor, loose hair splaying across my eyes. One arm had folded behind me in an unnatural angle as I fell. I felt sick and numb.
“This way,” said Charon.
I removed the leather pouch from my mouth as I followed the ferryman down the path, away from my lifeless corpse. My eyes were adjusting to the gloom, but there wasn’t much except more gloom to see. The inside of a tree, it turns out, looks a lot like the outside of a tree, only darker. The cavern went much farther, deep into the earth. I could hear water flowing somewhere nearby as I followed Charon downward. The trickling little stream snaked into the cave, dribbling down a series of uneven tiers until it drained at last into a wide underground river. Mist swirled above the dark waters.
We descended the steps until we reached the river’s edge, and Charon held out a bony hand. I retrieved two coins from the pouch, offering them up. Charon plucked them out of my hand, rubbing them together with a satisfied tinkling.
“Obols. It has been a long time since I was paid in obols.” He sounded pleased, but his bony face showed no emotion. One of the coins glowed ruby red and then abruptly crumbled to ash between his fingers. He held the other up in the light from the opening above us, rubbing its weathered face with his thumb. “Eight chalkoi to the obol, six obols to the drachma, and one obol”—he handed the coin back to me—“to ride the ferry. I do not overcharge.”
I took the coin and thanked him as I tucked it back into the leather purse.
He stepped out onto an ancient dock and picked up a long pole from where it rested against decrepit ropes. At the top of the pole hung three small rods from a short chain, like a sort of flail. Charon shook the stick as if he were trying to shoo away a fly. The rods vanished and for a fraction of a second it seemed as though a long, crescent scythe blade had taken their place, but then the pole was just a pole. It was a little wider toward the top, but otherwise just a straight staff hewn of ordinary wood.
He unwound a length of rope from the mooring and pulled firmly until an old wooden ship slowly cut through the veil of mist and came to bump against the dock. It was a long, shallow vessel, lined with weather-bleached crossbeams that stuck out like human ribs within a coal-black chest. It had a thin mast, but the sail, if ever it had flown one, had long since rotted away. The fore and aft of the ship curved upward, and the figurehead was a snarling dragon.
“That’s your boat?” I said.
“Is there a problem?”
“No, of course not. It’s just not exactly what I expected. In the paintings it’s more of a simple gondola. Isn’t that a bit large for one person to steer?”
“Vikings,” he said. “They are stubborn, but they do make beautiful boats. This one is special. It handles rivers like a fish. You are correct, though. This is more than necessary. I had more souls to carry on my last trip. Please stand back.”
He took hold of the ship with both pale hands and heaved upward. It tipped until it looked like it was about to capsize, and then folded impossibly into itself. Heavy timbers slid together like a collapsible jewelry box, each section slotting perfectly into place with a satisfying wooden clatter until it settled back into shape, bobbing gently on the water as a skiff half the size of the original. The boatman stood with his hands behind his back, rocking on his feet ever so slightly. “Yes,” he said. “That is better.”
“That’s incredible!” I said. “How does it work?”
“Magic. Or science, or whatever they’re calling it now. The smiths of Nidavellir constructed it. It was a gift from an old king. They used to call him the Father of the Slain. He was very popular. Do you still do Wednesdays up there?”
“Wednesdays?” I said. He had climbed into the fore of the boat, and I slid onto a wooden seat at the aft. The boat smelled of salt and firewood. “Erm. Yes, we still do Wednesdays.”
Charon nodded. “That one’s his. There is a channel in these roots that leads to his hall.” Charon plunged his pole into the water and pushed off, punting the boat into the mist. “His men used to make a sport of skipping past me. There were days when this river was thick with their longships. They brought their own boats with them when they died.”
“That all sounds like the Vikings,” I said.
“That’s right.”
“I thought you were Greek.”
“I don’t bother much with politics. I am the ferryman.”
“But you’re real,” I said. “And this place is real.”
“Yes.”
“So who had it right, then?”
“I do not understand the question.”
“The afterlife. There are lots of different versions, and they can’t all be true. Heaven, Hell, the Happy Hunting Ground—which is it? You’re here, so does that mean there’s a Hades with an Elysium and a Tartarus and everything?”
“Why would there not be?”
“Well, because a moment ago you were talking about Valhalla.”
Charon pressed forward. The mist split around the masthead, curling into eddies that spun ghostly pirouettes over the surface of the river, the whole dance reflected below in the wine dark waters. “Do you know the fable of the blind men and the elephant?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t heard that one,” I said.
“A woman from the Hunan Province told it to me,” said Charon. “Once upon a time a stranger came to a remote village with an elephant. Everyone got excited, including three blind men who didn’t know what an elephant was. They decided to find out for themselves.
“The first man approached the elephant near its head. He reached his hand out and felt the leathery ear. The second man approached from behind and brushed the elephant’s bristly tail. The third came at it from the side and stroked its wide midsection.
“ ‘What a strange creature an elephant is,’ the first man said. ‘So flat and thin, like wash hung from the line.’
“ ‘What are you talking about?’ said the second man. ‘That animal was hairy and coarse, like the bristles on a stiff broom.’
“ ‘You are both wrong!’ said the third. ‘The beast was as broad and sturdy as a wall.’ They three men argued and argued, but they never could come to an agreement.”
Charon let the river drift past for another moment. “So,” he said finally. “Who had it right?”
“They all did,” I said. “Just not the whole of it.”
“Good answer.”
Charon guided the boat along, and I began to see things moving in the mist, shapes shifting along the shoreline, though I could not make out what I was seeing at first. We drew nearer, and I gasped. The silhouette of an enormous beast with a long snout lumbered along the bank across from us.
“Is that,” I whispered, “a hellhound?”
“That is Ammit.”
“Ammit?”
Charon gestured casually with his long pole, and the mist obligingly parted. The figure on the riverbank was not a dog at all—although it appeared to be trying to be every other animal all at once. It had the head of a crocodile, the mane and forefeet of a lion, and the heavy back legs of a hippopotamus. Its eyes shot up, red and piercing as we passed, but soon the mist closed back in and we moved beyond it.
I opened my mouth, but found no words with which to fill it.
“She is not what you were expecting?”
“She?” I said. “No, she’s not what I was expecting. I guess I imagined little red imps or maybe choirs of moony angels with white robes and harps.” I glanced back over my shoulder into the haze. “Ammit is a little different.”
“They are here, also.” Charon pressed onward at a slow crawl. Within the spinning mist I began to see all manner of shapes and faces, and it was difficult to determine if I was only imagining things in the billowing clouds or catching a real glimpse of what lay beyond them. “The imps are not my favorite, but we can take that route if you prefer.”
“No, no. That’s quite all right.” I considered. “Is it hard to find your way?”
“I never lose my way.”
“Do you think I’ll be able to find mine?”
“I do not know.”
“I’m looking for a man called Lawrence Hoole. Do you know how I might find him?”
“The river does not generally take you where you want to go,” said Charon. “But it will always take you where you need to be.”
“That’s moderately reassuring,” I said.
“There will be trials.” Charon’s tone betrayed neither sympathy nor malice. “There are always trials.”
“I rather suspected.” I took a deep breath. “What sort of trials?”
“I do not know what you will face. There are many. Ishtar once sacrificed articles of clothing at each gate until she stood naked before all the monsters of the underworld.”
“That sounds like the sort of trial a naughty schoolboy would write.”
Charon shrugged. “Ra had to slay a great serpent; Persephone had to abstain from eating. Some have crossed through fire, and others have simply found their names in a book. It is different for everyone. Death is a personal journey.”
The boat suddenly rocked and lurched to a stop as if it had run aground. The mist roiled and condensed before us until it formed two pillars of solid ivory. Between them sprang coils of smoke that trickled upward toward the foggy darkness of the cavern ceiling. Somewhere in the distance a low note sounded, and the smoke trails snapped into tight, rigid bars. We bumped, bow to bars, against an ethereal gate.
“Ah,” said Charon. “Here you are.”
“What should I do?” I asked.
“—” said Charon.
“What?” I said, or tried to say. My lips formed the word, but no sound escaped.
The ferryman’s mouth opened and closed, but I could hear nothing. Even the rush and drip of water all around me had stopped. I clutched at my ears frantically.
“Strain your ears to be sure I’m here,” said a soft voice from beyond the gate. It was a woman’s voice, low and quiet as a whisper, but still crystal clear in the absence of any other sound. “But say my name and I disappear.”
I lowered my hands slowly. It was a riddle. I could do riddles. If it were a choice between wordplay and swordplay in the depths of the underground, I would take words any day. “Strain your ears to be sure I’m here. Say my name and I disappear.” I mouthed the clue as I thought. It sounded simple enough, although it was still unnerving to be enveloped by such absolute . . .
“Silence.” I said the word out loud, and with it came rushing back all of the other sounds of the underground cave. The gate was mist again in an instant, and the boat shuddered forward.
Charon bowed his head in approval and returned to propelling the slender ship forward.
“Was that it?” I said. “Am I done?”
A voice came from my left. “I sure hope not, Abby darling.”
I nearly fell out of the boat. Goose pimples rippled down my arms. Nellie Fuller stood beside us in the curling mist. She wore the same neatly tailored dress that had complemented her full figure when she was alive, her dark curls tucked up under a stylish black hat. She had been an ace reporter for the New Fiddleham Chronicle. She had been an indomitable force to be reckoned with. She had been my friend.
“It’s real nice to see you, kid.” She smiled. “But what’s a hot-blooded girl like you doing down here?”
“Nellie!” I wanted to weep. “Oh my word! I’m so sorry!”
“Sorry?”
“For what happened—the valley—the dragon. It should never have been you.”
She waved me away and rolled her eyes. “I don’t need anybody apologizing for my choices. I’d been all around the world—it was time for a new adventure, anyway. There are some amazing souls down here. I met a woman named Anne Bonny on my first night. She was a real-life pirate, told me all about it! When they caught her, she snuck out of jail and went straight. Nobody ever found her again, but guess what? She died decades later, peacefully, lying in her bed, a mild-mannered great-grandmother! I met a boy named Elpenor, too. He survived the Trojan War—sailed with Odysseus himself! The actual Odysseus! I didn’t even think any of that classic hero stuff really happened! Do you know how Elpenor died?”
“By the sword?” I guessed.
“He got drunk and fell off of a roof.” She laughed. “I got to tell the both of them that my last dance was toe to toe with an honest-to-goodness dragon! We all have to go sometime, Abby. I’m happy I went out on a high note. I’ve got no regrets.” She gave me a wink and I smiled. Death had not dulled her spirit in the least. “I didn’t plan on having you follow me down so soon, though,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
“I haven’t died,” I told her. “Dark forces are operating in New Fiddleham. People have been murdered, and Jackaby thinks that worse is on the way. I’m looking for answers.”
“Oh, Abby!” Nellie held a hand to her chest. She looked like she was watching her child’s first steps. “You followed a lead into the great beyond? God, you are like a young me. I’m so proud of you, sweetie. This place is great for answers. I tracked down the Borden parents right off. It turns out little Lizzie didn’t do it, after all. They’re a very nice couple, by the way. I hope their girl gets acquitted. She’s been through quite enough. So, who are you looking for?”
“I need to find a professor, a man named Hoole. I don’t suppose . . . ?”
“Sorry.” She shook her head. “Never heard of him. There’s a lot of underground to cover down here in the ever after. Good luck, though.”
“Thank you, Nellie,” I said. “We miss you, you know.”
“Don’t!” she chirped. “Just make it down here on your own terms eventually, and be sure you’ve built up a few amazing stories to tell me in the meantime.”
The mist crept around her again, and Nellie began to slide slowly backward.
“Oh, one more word of advice.” Her voice cut through the fog. “You want to catch the bastards? Use your peripheral vision. The real powers at play never take center stage. Don’t follow the marionette, follow the strings.”
“But I can’t see who’s pulling the strings! That’s why I’m down here. Nellie? Nellie?” The mist folded behind us as the slim longship drifted onward.
Nellie Fuller was well behind us when the boat ground to a halt again. This time it was not the white mist that coalesced into a barrier, but the dark shadows. As the gloom took solid shape, two obsidian pillars appeared to our left and right, followed by long strings of black, which dripped down from the roof of the cavern, stretching to the surface of the slow river like molasses from a spoon. The drips thickened, forming ink black bars. A deep chime sounded and the whole thing snapped into shape, just as the first gate had done.
“Here we go ag—” said Charon, and once more I was in a cushion of total silence.
The voice that issued from beyond the dark bars was small and meek, like a child’s. “The more and more you have of me, you’ll find the less that you can see.”
I thought for a moment. “That’s easy,” I said. “It’s darkness.”
The gate lost solidity and the boat eased forward again as the sounds echoing through the caverns returned. The darkness of the gate did not dissipate entirely, but spread and hung in the air like a curtain. Charon’s boat slipped through it like we were passing through a coal-black waterfall, and when we reached the far side the entire cave was as black as pitch.
I turned around, but the tunnel behind us was equally dark. “Charon?”
“I am here.”
“I can’t see a thing. Did I give the wrong answer?”
“I do not think so. You are doing very well.”
Ahead of us a pinprick of warm light appeared. It grew by slow degrees as Charon pressed the vessel steadily forward. Soon I realized it was a lantern, and clutching it was the silhouette of a girl.
“Hello?” I called.
“Who are you?” she said, suspiciously. She had an American accent.
“It’s all right. My name is Abigail,” I said. “Abigail Rook. What’s your name, young lady?” We drifted closer, and the girl’s face came into view. She could not have been more than ten; she was blonde with a heart-shaped face and wide, wary eyes. The little spirit, I realized, looked like she had stepped straight out of the tintype in Jackaby’s dossier. If I had had blood in my veins, it might have frozen. “Eleanor?”
“How do you know me?” she said. “Why are you here?”
The boat came to stop beside the girl, or else she was drifting along evenly with us now; I could see neither land nor water in the faint glow of the lantern. “We have a mutual friend,” I said. “He speaks very fondly of you. And very sadly. You meant a lot to him.”
Her brow crinkled. “I don’t have a lot of friends.”
“Neither does he, but he gets attached to the ones he has. Mr. Jackaby has the sight now. He’s made a life of using it to help people, especially people who are different. People who are misunderstood.”
Eleanor’s expression faltered. A curious brightness flickered in her eyes, and then she giggled. “Mr. Jackaby? With a mister and everything?” Her smile was timid and earnest.
“That’s right. He’s grown into a very special man since you—since you knew him. He’s a good man.”
“Jackaby,” said Eleanor. “He kept it.”
“Kept it? You mean the sight?”
“I mean the nickname. He never let me call him Jackaby when the other boys were around. It was all right when we were alone in the library, but he was so embarrassed when we were out in public. My Jackaby.”
“You mean Jackaby isn’t even his real name?” I said. I had often wondered what the R. F. stood for, but I had assumed I knew at least his surname. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, of course it isn’t. Pavel was right. Mr. Jackaby does have a thing about names.”
Eleanor laughed and caught her breath. The orange lamplight danced in her wide, wet eyes. “Names have power,” she whispered, nodding. “And he kept the one I gave him. My dear, sweet Jackaby.”
The lantern in her hands began to dim. Eleanor’s head shot up, her expression suddenly intense. Her hand reached toward me, fingers shaking with urgency. “Oh no. If he has the sight, then they’re coming for him, just like they came for me. They want it. They need it. Don’t let them take it. It’s important. You have to keep him safe!”
“Who’s coming for him?” I said. The light was flickering now, the cavern blinking into blackness and back with each sputter. Eleanor was beginning to drift away from the boat and back into the shadows.
“I never let them have it.” Her voice was panicked. “I never let them. I couldn’t. It’s too important.”
“Never let who have it? The council? Who is coming?”
“I could feel his eyes on me all the time, red as fire, waiting at the end.”
“Where? The end of what?”
“At the end,” she said, “of the long, dark hallway.” And then the lantern died away and the cavern was pitch-black again. In the darkness I could hear the faintest echo of a whisper. “My poor, sweet Jackaby.”
The sound of Charon’s pole splashing softly in the water and the echoes of drips were all that punctuated the silence for several minutes. My chest felt tight.
“One more, I should think,” Charon said at last.
“One more?”
“Yes,” he said. “Three feels right. I’ve been doing this for some time. You begin to notice the patterns.”
In another moment the boat shuddered beneath us. I still couldn’t see anything, but I could tell that we had stopped. If there was a gate before us, I could not describe it. Everything was inky black.
“Here we are,” Charon said.
A ringing note cut through the darkness, and then all sound ceased. The voice that followed was a man’s this time, clear and deep.
“My constant hunger must be fed, but if I drink, then I’ll be dead.”
Hunger and feeding and death—the notions felt uncomfortably close to home. A vampire? Vampires had to feed, but drinking wasn’t what killed them. I tried to think, but my mind kept flashing back to little Eleanor and Nellie Fuller. What creature ate constantly, but could not drink?
“Fire!” I said at last. The word had barely left my lips when I was pressed back in the ship by a wave of hot air and a blinding light. Twin columns of flame bloomed to either side of us, and the surface of the river flickered with blue heat. We were coasting forward again down a channel of burning black waters, and this time we were approaching a dock.
“We have arrived.” Charon nudged the ship forward until it bumped to a stop against the landing. The flames licked the sides of the old pier, but the ancient wood did not burn. “You did well, Abigail Rook.”