Darwen Arkwright and the School of Shadows (27 page)

“The scrobblers are coming!” shouted Alex as the door to the control room kicked open.

And then they were moving.

The Deep Mine

T
he yellow cars
descended into the earth with a low whirring sound that set Darwen's teeth on edge. The flittercrake flattened its face to the glass and chortled malevolently, delighted by their evident discomfort.

“Can they come after us?” Rich demanded, peering back up the shaft.

Owen shook his head. “Manual override,” he said, tapping the train controls. “A safety measure. Never thought I'd need to use it. Once we get out, they can call the train back up and come after us if they want to. You think they'll want to?”

Rich, Darwen, and Alex all looked at each other and said nothing.

“Right,” said Owen. “Well, I'm not sure how we're going to get up again, but for now we're in the clear.”

“If we can get Mr. Peregrine, we may not need to use the train again,” said Darwen. “There's a portal down here,” he added, recalling what Weazen had said.

“A what?” asked Owen.

Darwen shook his head. “I'll show you if we find it,” he said.

Further and further down they went, so that the light from the sky behind them faded to nothing, and then there was only the soft glow of the lamps in the shaft. The walls were first concrete, laced with cable and braced with girders, then reinforced stone, carved out of the ground itself. From time to time they saw platforms where they might get off or glimpsed open passageways chiseled out of the rock, but still they descended, the air getting steadily cooler as they went. They saw one last set of signs aimed at visitors, then nothing as the train burrowed deeper and deeper into the ground, finally stopping in a silence Darwen could almost see.

They opened the car doors and clambered cautiously out. Low- wattage emergency lights glowed on the walls, and by them they could see the long tunnel with its side caverns. The slate had once been quarried there by men using little more than picks and candles. Where the ceiling was low, Darwen could see the black smearing of soot and felt a pang of pity for all those who had worked down here in the dark.

Owen brought two boxy flashlights from the front of the train and handed one to Rich. “This way,” he said.

They passed through dank stone hallways flanked by square hollows marked by drill tips and strewn with refuse fragments of slate. Some of these rooms were small and regular, some cavernous, one with a broad and shallow pool that plinked from drops from the wet ceiling. They went up and down metal stairways, past still older wooden ladders that looked thoroughly unsafe, but just as they seemed to be following a well-trodden route, Owen pointed to the left.

Darwen didn't need telling. Wherever Mr. Peregrine was, he was close to another portal. Darwen could feel its presence swelling in his mind like the hum of electricity.

They climbed over the guardrail and entered one of the quarry chambers.

“A century ago,” said Owen, his voice unwinding out of the gloom, “a man would work in a room like this his entire life. In the winter, he wouldn't see daylight at all, working from before dawn till after sunset under the ground. Sounds like hell, doesn't it?”

He was making conversation to calm his nerves.

“There is a portal down here,” Darwen whispered to himself.

The flittercrake nodded its agreement.

“It won't help you now, though,” it said, grinning. “They took it offline when they left.” The flittercrake did a half loop, giving a simpering look from upside down.

“So we're stuck?” said Rich.

“Let's worry about that after we find Mr. Peregrine,” said Darwen. He had managed to do it before, but the idea of having to force a portal open when it wasn't connected to either the Guardians' grid or Greyling's power supply sat like a great weight on his chest.

They rounded a corner and found themselves in a long tunnel like the main route through the mine. On either side were the same stone rooms, though there were no safety lamps here and it was only by the beam of Rich's powerful flashlight that they could see anything at all.

“This is where they transferred him,” said Owen in an awed hush. “I've never been down this far before.”

There were no tanks of liquid like the ones they had expected to find. Instead, the walls of the chamber were lined with metal objects the size and shape of oversized men, misty, greenish windows where the faces should be.

Darwen had seen this place before. “This is what the mirror in Mr. Peregrine's watchtower showed,” he said to Rich. “I remember those weird pod things, except that then they were lit up from the inside. Why was he monitoring the very place they would take him?”

“They look like Egyptian sarcophagi,” said Rich, sounding excited. “You think there are mummies inside?” He shone his flashlight into the nearest window and took a gasping step backward.

It was as Darwen remembered. The face inside belonged to a scrobbler—or very nearly—oversized tusks and massive, brutal features. Only the eyes were wrong. Behind the brass goggles they were blue, not red.

“I don't understand,” said Darwen. “Where is Mr. Peregrine?”

“Over here,” said Owen, standing beside one of the vertical pods. “These look to be the newest.”

“You've never seen pods like these before?” asked Darwen.

“Never,” said Owen. “I just worked with the fluid tanks. I knew there was another lab deeper in the mine, but no one talks about it and I don't have clearance to come down. Only the odd bods work down here. What's going on?”

“I'm honestly not sure,” said Darwen, “but I don't like it.”

“I haven't liked anything on this trip so far,” said Alex, “but this place takes the creepy cake.”

Darwen knew what she meant. Something down here in the dark was very wrong.

“Why are the pods plugged in?” Rich mused. “The lab—if that's what it is—has been abandoned, but something is still running. I can hear it.”

“It wasn't when we came through,” said Darwen. “It just started.”

“You think we triggered it?” said Rich.

“Let's just get Mr. P and go,” said Alex.

“That generator thing over there,” said Rich. “The thing that has wires running to all the pods.”

“What about it?” asked Owen.

“Was that little red light there before?” Rich asked.

“Quick,” said Darwen, moving to the pods Owen had indicated. “Help me get these open.”

Owen pried free a series of catches and Darwen yanked the door of the casket-like pod. It opened with a long, pneumatic hiss and a gasp of steam that took a moment to clear. When it did, Darwen stepped back in horror.

Inside was what had been Mr. Peregrine. The clothes were still his, and there was something familiar about the face. But the skin was thick and greenish, the teeth oversized, the whole body hulking and brutal looking.

“He's a . . . a . . .” Tears began to fill Darwen's eyes. He couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence.

But he didn't need to. Everyone could plainly see what Mr. Peregrine had become.

A scrobbler.

Scrobblers Again

A
s Rich and
Alex gaped in horror, Darwen stepped back, revulsion rippling through him like nausea. Blindly he stepped to another of the pods and turned to see what he could through the greenish window. It also contained a scrobbler—a blue-eyed scrobbler, but a scrobbler nonetheless—as did the next two. The fourth was something different. It had something of the scrobbler to it, but where the monster's skin was green, this was pale, and the tusks were the merest extensions beyond the lips. It was obvious that it was, or had been, a man. There was a tracing of fair hair above the goggles, and the lips were slim. It wasn't an inviting face, and Darwen had a powerful impression that those lips and eyes could become cruel without further transfiguration, but it was certainly human. The next pod held a woman. The goggles over her eyes were the only thing about her that suggested anything of the scrobbler at all, unless it was a certain hardness in the face.

“She was just promoted!” Owen exclaimed. “She worked with me, like George, but she got promoted and transferred off-site a week ago. I saw her go down the deep mine for some kind of training session, but I haven't seen her since. What is happening to her?”

“A training session,” Rich repeated grimly. “And she never came out.”

Owen stared at him, then turned to Darwen for answers.

“She's being turned into a scrobbler,” said Darwen. “What you call odd bods. I think I understand now. There are two separate processes. One of them makes and controls the flesh-suit disguises. The other does . . . this.” He swallowed. “The scrobblers aren't born. They are made. Greyling takes people, ordinary people, and
converts
them.”

The flittercrake's malicious grin had vanished. Instead the creature perched on top of the open pod containing Mr. Peregrine, glowering at them like a crow on a headstone.

Darwen looked into the greenish window at the top of the next pod and his stomach twisted again.

It was Blodwyn Evans.

And yet not quite. It had been her. Now it was a monster, a grotesque mockery of the person she had been.

“I should feel more relieved that she's not dead,” said Alex, staring at the thing that had been Blodwyn.

“I know what you mean,” Darwen agreed. Being transformed like this was almost worse than if she had been killed.

“Greyling is building an army,” said Rich.

“No more sneaking bits of land from either world,” Alex agreed. “He's going to invade both on a massive scale.”

The great cavern felt even colder than before.

“Can we change them back?” Darwen asked.

“What do you mean?” asked Owen.

Darwen turned on him, furious, and grabbed hold of the lapels of his white coat.

“Are they gone forever?” he roared into the Welshman's face. “Or can we get them back to the way they were?”

“I don't know!” Owen protested. “I don't know what they become. This is a completely different operation from the one I worked on. The people who got promoted would go down and then they'd need new supplies and equipment.”

“Regularly?” asked Rich.

Owen shook his head. “Sometimes there would be shipments of supplies going down every few hours,” he said. “Sometimes it was days or weeks between deliveries.”

“Could be that the amount of time the transformation takes varies from person to person,” said Rich. “Maybe some resist it somehow.”

Darwen's revulsion surged again. “Get him out of there,” he said, nodding at the thing that had been Mr. Peregrine. “Turn the machine off and get him out.”

“I don't know what that will do to him,” Owen protested.

“I don't care!” Darwen exclaimed. “Get him out. Now.”

Overwhelmed by Darwen's anger and certainty, Owen began unplugging leads and cables, throwing switches and releasing restraining clamps. A moment later, Owen and Darwen were dragging the limp and strangely distorted form of Mr. Peregrine from the pod. He was heavy, as if his clothes were soaking wet, and Darwen laid him down on the stone floor, panting. Owen opened the old man's mouth, exposing those terrible, tusklike teeth, and pulled some kind of tube from Mr. Peregrine's throat.

“This is the same system we use in the tanks,” he said. “Which means . . .” He looked around the pod and proclaimed, “Aha!” as he snapped a large syringe from a bracket on the back. He checked the label, then placed the needle directly over the old man's heart.

“What are you doing?!” Rich demanded.

“This is what we use for emergencies in the lab,” said Owen. “If they're using the same method for keeping him in stasis, this should wake him up.”

“Wake what, though?” Alex said.

Though it was wearing Mr. Peregrine's clothes, burst now at the seams, the thing on the floor was a scrobbler in almost every respect. Rich looked unsure. “I don't know, Darwen,” he said. “Maybe he's gone. Maybe we were just too late and we should—”

“What?” Darwen demanded. “Leave him?”

“Look at him!” said Alex. “It's not Mr. P. Not anymore. And that means he's not going to help us fight Greyling.”

Darwen looked down and for a second he thought they were right, but then he stooped to the greenish face and raised the right eyelid. “Blue,” he said. “The eyes are blue. He hasn't changed completely. Wake him.”

The flittercrake fluttered down and clung to Darwen's shoulder to watch. For once, the creature wasn't grinning. It looked worried.

Owen pushed the point of the needle into the old man's chest and depressed the plunger.

Nothing happened.

“Come on!” said Darwen.

“I don't think he's coming back, Darwen,” said Rich.

“He has to,” said Darwen, staring at the strange-looking figure on the floor.

Its eyes snapped open. They were still blue, but they were wild and uncertain, flashing madly around. The mouth opened and a great, hungry snarl emerged from the thing that had been Mr. Peregrine.

Everyone took a step back. And then it was sitting up, drawing itself into an awkward and menacing crouch as if it might be preparing to spring, looking around like the teachers at Hillside had when the lights dimmed. Its eyes found each of them in turn, lingered on them, and flicked on till they reached Darwen. Then they stopped and held him.

Mr. Peregrine—if that was still what the creature in front of them was—kept very still for a long time, and then, without warning, it lunged at Darwen, face-first, tusks bared as if poised to bite. Horrified, Darwen raised his hands to fight back . . .

But then it stopped. Its broad, greenish nostrils flared, and Darwen heard it inhale.

“It's smelling you,” said Alex. “Why is it smelling you?”

Darwen kept very still and said nothing. He could feel the power of the thing inches from him. If it chose to attack him now, he would be powerless to stop it. He held his breath.

“Mister Octavius Peregrine,” said Alex in a soothing voice. “Mister Octavius Peregrine.”

“What are you doing?” hissed Rich.

“Reminding him who he is,” said Alex. “Mister Octavius Peregrine.”

And then the strangest thing began to happen: the creature's face started to change. Darwen wasn't sure if it was the name that did it, but the eyes lost something of their frantic, hunted look, the hunger replaced by something only humans could express: deep and lingering sadness. “Mr. Peregrine?” Darwen said hesitantly, the hope evident in his voice. He watched as the creature raised its huge, heavily nailed hands to its face and studied them, the grief in its eyes touched with horror.

“You are Mr. Octavius Peregrine,” Darwen said, cautiously stepping closer and reaching for those massive hands.

“Darwen!” said Rich. “Be careful.”

“Shh,” said Darwen, taking another tentative step. When he was close enough, he took one of the creature's hands gently in his. Some of the green had even begun to fade from its cheeks. Darwen looked once more into its eyes. “It's okay,” he whispered.

A flash of pain went through those eyes and the figure crumpled to the ground, grunting in obvious distress.

“What can we do?” Darwen asked Owen, still holding Mr. Peregrine's hands, but the Welshman just shook his head and shrugged.

“I've never done this before,” he said.

“Darwen, look!” exclaimed Alex.

Darwen returned his gaze to Mr. Peregrine, whose back was arching in agony. The man who had been his mentor whipped back and forth with frenzied speed where he lay, moving impossibly quickly and emitting an awful screeching sound that changed, very slowly, into a simple, human sob. The body looked like it had collapsed in on itself, become smaller, as if part of it had melted away, until where the scrobbler had been there was what was clearly an exhausted and beaten-looking version of Mr. Octavius Peregrine.

He opened one eye, then his mouth, though it took several attempts before he could speak audibly enough for them to hear what he was saying.

“Hello, Darwen,” he whispered. “I knew you would come.”