Blood Beast (8 page)

Loch leans over and mock-whispers to me, just loud enough for Bill-E to hear, “Do you think anyone would notice if I took Spleeny out to that hole and made him
disappear?
”

“Shut up, you jerk,” I snap, and march ahead of him, paying no attention to his theatrical gasp.

Home. No Dervish. A note on the kitchen table. “Went to get my bike. Don’t worry about fixing me dinner — still not in the mood for solids.”

Damn it! Of all the times in my life, why does Dervish pick these few days to be Mr. Impossible to Pin Down! Now I wish I’d hit him with the news as soon as he got home. Would have served the old souse right.

Too itchy-footed to wait for him. Better to do something than hang around here, struggling to kill time with home-work and TV. So a quick change of clothes, a hasty sandwich, then it’s off to the hole to find out what Loch and Bill-E make of my late-night digging marathon.

They’re baffled. Standing around the pit when I arrive, jaws slack, staring from the rocks and piles of dirt down into the hole, then back again. Both are holding shovels limply and look like you could knock them over with a fart. “Hell,” I gasp playfully. “You’ve been working hard.” “We didn’t do it,” Loch says numbly. “It was like this when we arrived,” Bill-E mutters. I force a frown. “What are you talking about?” “We haven’t been digging,” Loch says, becoming animated. “We only got here a few minutes ago. We found it like this.” “But who. . . how. . . what the heck?” Bill-E mumbles. We spend ten minutes debating the
mystery.
The simplest solution, which I offer shamelessly, is that somebody discovered the hole after we’d left and did some digging themselves. Bill-E and Loch dismiss it instantly — there are no shovel marks in the newly excavated sections, and no footprints except our own. (I didn’t leave any barefooted prints in the night. I must have been extra light on my feet. Padded softly. . . like a wolf.) Besides, they argue, who the hell would go digging in the middle of the night? “An earthquake?” I suggest as an alternative.

Snorts of derision. We don’t get earthquakes here. Besides, even if we did, that wouldn’t explain the dirt and rocks piled up around the hole.

Loch wonders if a wild animal is responsible.

“What sort of animal do you think that might be?” Bill-E sneers. “A troll or an ogre? Or maybe it was elves, like in the fairy tale with the shoemaker.”

Eventually Bill-E comes up with a theory that satisfies all three of us, at least in the absence of anything more believable. “Lord Sheftree,” he says. “If this is where his treasure’s buried, maybe he booby-trapped the entrance with explosives. When we were digging, we set them off, but because they’d been buried so long, they didn’t ignite right away. It took them a few hours to explode, by which time we were safely home, clear of the blast radius.”

“I dunno,” Loch mutters, examining the rocks around us. “These look like they were pulled out cleanly, not blasted.”

“Maybe it was a catapult-type mechanism,” Bill-E says, warming to his theory. “He had all these rocks loaded on a platform, which was set to shoot them upwards when the trap was sprung. They’d crush anyone nearby.”

We discuss it further, trying to figure how the trap worked and wondering if there might be more than just one. I advise caution and propose retreat — we should report this and leave it to professionals to mine the dangerous hole. Bill-E and Loch shout me down.

“We’ll go slowly,” Bill-E says.

“Carefully,” Loch agrees.

“If there are other traps, they’re probably slow burners too,” Bill-E argues.

“But I doubt if there are more,” Loch says. “What would be the point? One’s enough. If it was set off, old Sheftree could have simply cleaned up the bodies, then set the trap again.”

In the end, despite the dangers, they decide to keep going. Since they can’t be swayed and there’s no profit in cutting myself off from them, I reluctantly grab a shovel and all three of us climb down into the hole.

For an hour we work doggedly and fearfully — me fearful of faces appearing in the rocks, Bill-E and Loch fearful of running afoul of the dead Lord Sheftree.

We pause every time there’s a rustling in the trees over-head or when a heavy stream of earth trickles down into the hole, me anticipating whispers, Bill-E and Loch thinking it might be the grinding gears of Lord Sheftree’s next weapon of mass destruction. But gradually we adjust to the natural sounds of the forest and stop flinching at every minor disturbance.

Bill-E and Loch are more convinced than ever that we’ve unearthed the final resting place of Lord Sheftree’s buried treasure. Not me. There’s something magical about this hole. It drew me to it last night, sang out to the moon-affected beast I’d become, and lured it here, turning me into a conspirator, using me to clear the way for. . . what?

I don’t know. I haven’t the slightest idea what we might be digging our way down to. But I’m pretty certain it’s not a rich miser’s hidden treasure.

Loch and I work together, chipping away at the hard-packed earth around the large rocks, prying them out slowly, often painfully, rolling and dragging them up the slope.

Bill-E cleans up after us, removing the smaller rocks, pebbles, and dirt. We’re an effective team, although as Loch tires from the hard work, he starts cursing and teasing Bill-E, taking out his irritation on him. At first I ignore it, but he keeps on and on, Spleenio this, fat boy that, lazy eye the other, and eventually I snap.

“Why don’t you lay off him?” I snarl after an especially brutal remark about Bill-E’s dead mother.

“Make me,” Loch retorts.

I square up to him. “Maybe I will.”

Loch holds his shovel in both hands and raises it warningly. I grab the handle and we glare at each other. Then Bill-E slips behind me and whispers, “Ice him, Grubbs!” It’s so flat, so vicious, so un-Bill-E, that I turn around, startled, releasing the shovel.

“What did you say?”

Bill-E looks confused, but angry too. “I meant. . . I just. . . ”

“I heard him,” Loch growls. “He told you to bump me off.”

“What if I did?” Bill-E bristles, and now he tries to get around me, so that
he
can go toe-to-toe with Loch.

“Stop,” I say firmly. I lay my left palm against the nearest rock wall and concentrate. After a few seconds I feel or sense the vibrations of a very faint throbbing. A nonhuman throbbing. “We all need to chill.”

“Who made you the leader?” Loch barks.

“We’re being manipulated.” His forehead creases and I start to tell him there’s magic at work, affecting our tempers. But then I realize how crazy that would sound. “The soil,” I say instead, inventing quickly. “There must be some sort of chemical in it. Put there by Lord Sheftree. It’s making us feel and say things we shouldn’t. If we don’t stop, we’ll be at each other’s throats soon.”

Loch’s frown deepens, then clears. “I’ll be damned,” he sighs.

“The sly old buzzard,” Bill-E hoots. “Chemicals to alter our dispositions and turn us against one another. Coolio!”

“I thought you were my enemy,” Loch says wonderingly, staring at me. “It came so suddenly, without warning. I believed you were out to kill me. The shovel . . .” He looks down at the sharp, grey head, then drops it and clambers out of the pit. Bill-E and I follow. We find Loch sitting by the edge of the hole, shivering.

“Are you OK?” I ask.

“I don’t think we should keep going,” Loch whispers. “You were right. We should turn this over to someone who knows what they’re doing. Chemicals. . . that’s out of our league.”

“No way!” Bill-E protests. “We’re close, I know it. You can’t back out now. That would be real craziness.”

“But —” Loch begins.

“There might not be any chemicals,” Bill-E interrupts. “Maybe we’re just tired and edgy. It’s been a long day, we’re hungry, we’ve been working hard, it’s late. . . . Combine all those things and you get three soreheaded bears.”

“It was more than grumpiness,” Loch says.

“Probably,” Bill-E agrees. “But let’s say there
are
chemicals down there. It’s been so long since they were planted, their strength must have dwindled by now. I bet, if we’d dug fifty years ago, they would have blinded or killed us. Now all they can do is make our hackles rise. We should take a short break, clear our heads, then get back to work. If we find ourselves getting short-tempered again, we come up for another rest.”

“I’m not sure,” I mutter. If we were alone, I’d tell Bill-E about my fears — that this place is part of the world of magic. I’m sure he’d take more notice of my warnings then. But I can’t speak about such things in front of Loch. “Why don’t we leave it alone for today? It’s getting late. Let’s go home and sleep on it.”

“Not yet,” Bill-E pleads. “Give it until dusk, like we planned. Since we’re here, we might as well make the most of the daylight.”

“Spleenio’s right,” Loch says. Now that the influence of the hole has passed, he’s his old self again, intent on getting his hands on the treasure, quickly forgetting his fears. “Let’s do what we came to, then go home and relax. It might be weeks before we dig all the way to the bottom. We can’t get cold feet every time we run into an obstacle.”

I don’t like it, but their minds are set, so after a short break, we pick up our tools and edge down into the hole again.

We remove one of the biggest rocks yet and haul it to the top. Standing by the edge of the hole. Sweating, shaking, flexing our fingers. “This is torture,” Loch groans.

“Think the treasure will be worth it?” I ask.

“It better be.”

“What if there’s nothing there, if it’s just a hole?”

Loch smiles. “It isn’t. We’re on to something big. I can feel it in my bones.”

“You’re just feeling what you want to feel.”

Loch scowls. “Stop being such a —”

Bill-E screams.

Loch and I bolt down the hole. We find Bill-E submerged in earth up to his waist, clinging to the rocks around him, face bright with terror. “There’s nothing underneath!” he shouts. “My legs are dangling! I’m going to fall! I’m going to fall! I’m going to —”

I grab his right hand. Loch grabs his left.

“We won’t drop you!” I yell.

“Not unless you give us reason to,” Loch jokes.

“I was digging.” Bill-E gasps, fingernails gouging my flesh. “Rooting up stones. The floor gave way. My shovel fell. I heard it clanging all the way down — a
long
way. I thought. . . I dropped this far. . . I managed to grab the edge. If I hadn’t . . .” He starts to cry.

“Look at the chubster.” Loch howls with delight. “Boohooing like a baby!”

“Can’t you shut up just once in your stupid bloody life!” I roar — then catch myself. “The chemicals,” I hiss. “Loch. . . Bill-E. . . take it easy. No outbursts. No insults. Relax. Think nice thoughts. Tell me when you feel normal.”

“How can I be normal when I’m stuck down a —” Bill-E shrieks.

“Nice thoughts,” I interrupt sternly, sensing the throbbing again, coming from the rocks around us. “Loch — you thinking nice things?”

“Yeah.” Loch grins. “I’m imagining the baby’s howls if we let him drop.”

“Loch!”

“OK,” he grumbles, and shuts his eyes. After a few seconds his expression clears. He opens his eyes and nods to show he’s in control. Bill-E is less composed, but that’s understandable, given the situation he’s in.

“You need to talk to us,” I tell him. “We’re going to pull you out, but we don’t want to hurt you. Are there any stones jabbing you, sticks, wire. . . anything that might cut into you if we pull you out quickly?”

“I don’t think so.” Bill-E sobs. “But it’s hard to tell. I don’t know.”

“Relax,” I soothe. “You’re safe. We have you. Now concentrate and let us know how we can help you out of this mess with the least amount of discomfort.”

Bill-E focuses and moves slightly, exploring the unseen territory around his legs. Finally he gulps and says, “I think it’s safe to pull.”

“Great.” I smile falsely. “Loch — you ready?” He grunts. “We’ll take it easy to begin with. Act on my command. Pull softly when I say. Stop if I give the order. Understand?”

“Whatever,” he shrugs.

I’d like to wipe my palms dry but I don’t think Bill-E would hang there patiently if I released him. So, gripping tighter, glad of the dirt on my skin that counteracts the sweat, I give Loch the nod and we tug. Resistance, but not for very long. Soon Bill-E’s sliding out of the hole within the hole, trembling wildly but otherwise unharmed. When his feet are clear, we give one last yank and he sprawls on top of us, knocking us to the ground, where we lie, panting and laughing weakly.

After about a minute, without discussing it, we get up and crawl forward, eager to check out the hole that Bill-E has uncovered. It’s a black chasm. Impossible to see very far down it. The light’s too bad.

“Wait here,” Bill-E says, scrambling up to the surface. He returns quickly, a baseball cap on his head, two small flash-lights strapped to either side. “Spent half an hour last night fixing this up,” he says proudly, then holds up a bigger, stronger flashlight. “I brought this too. Been lugging it around all day. Just in case.”

“Spleen, you’re a genius,” Loch says, and Bill-E smiles. “A fat, deformed simpleton, but also a genius,” he adds, and Bill-E’s smile turns to a scowl.

“Why don’t you take one of the lights off the hat?” I suggest. “Then we can each have one.”

“No,” Bill-E says. “They’re not powerful enough by themselves. You need the two together for them to be worth anything.” He brushes by us, justifiably smug, taking temporary leadership. He crouches by the edge of the hole he made and flicks on the strong flashlight. Loch and I crouch by him and stare. The hole continues down as far as we can see, at a slight angle, lots of little stones jutting out of the main rock face, plenty of niches for hands and feet.

“Hell,” Loch gasps. “It’s massive.”

“There’s no way Lord Sheftree could have dug this,” Bill-E notes. “He might have widened the entrance to make it easier to get to this point, but the rest of it’s natural.”

“How far down do you think it runs?” I ask.

“Only one way to find out.” Bill-E grins.