Locked Inside (14 page)

The Elf waited.

“But Max loved her, and he still does. It’s a stronger tie for him than I can even understand, I think. And that’s one reason why he—” Marnie stopped.

Why he keeps trying to take care of Skye’s daughter
, whispered the Sorceress-voice.
Who can’t let anyone get close. Just like her mother.

A
silence fell, and elongated, and Marnie was once more filled with the realization that the Elf was a stranger. And here she was, telling him things that she herself didn’t fully comprehend.

She chanced a sidelong glance at his face; he was looking quietly back at her. He nodded acknowledgment of what she’d said about Max, but didn’t say anything else and she was overcome by gratitude. She shivered, and tightened her arms around her knees. She thought about asking the Elf once more if he was in pain but knew that was futile. Of course he was. There was nothing either of them could do about it.

“Are you cold?” said the Elf.

“No,” Marnie replied. She rested her cheek on her knees, looking away from him. More silence. She was lying, and knew he knew it. She was very aware of the single blanket over her lap and his legs.
She wasn’t going to take it from him. He needed it more.

They stayed silent awhile longer.

Finally the Elf said, “I take it the bucket over there is the, er, sanitary facilities?”

Marnie couldn’t help it; she sniffed herself discreetly again, wondering how bad she and Yertle smelled. But she still couldn’t tell. “Yes, that’s it,” she spat out. She wondered hysterically: should she apologize? No, it wasn’t her fault—

“This is awkward,” said the Elf calmly. “But I need … that is, I’m going to need help getting over there. Or maybe you could just bring it closer.”

Marnie was consumed with the certain knowledge that she was an idiot. Not to mention selfish, unthinking … “Yes, of course,” she managed. “Uh, which—which would you prefer?”

“Bring it closer,” said the Elf. “And then if you could just help me stand …”

“Sure,” said Marnie hastily. “Sure.”

Marnie had no idea, during the whole little business that followed, if the Elf looked at her at all. She avoided looking at him. She had not known there was this much awkwardness and embarrassment in all the world. And she was aware, peripherally, that he wasn’t quite as embarrassed as she was. Or maybe not even much at all. Somehow, that made things worse. Then, when she realized she needed to pee as well, and the Elf turned his back without her saying anything—and there was something so kind about it—abruptly, Marnie just wanted to kill him. Even though she knew that her anger wasn’t about
him at all, but about her, and all the things she was still trying to take in, to understand.

And now the Elf was apologizing, saying it was no big deal, and he was grateful for her help, using a gentle voice as if she was in nursery school. “Just shut up,” Marnie said.

He did, but only for a few minutes. Then: “Is there any more seltzer?”

Marnie’s throat closed up on her as that worry resurfaced. “Yes,” she said. She got the bottle and handed it to him as he lay on the cot.

But he didn’t take a drink. Instead he looked at the level of liquid and then tilted his head toward her. “That’s all that’s left?” he said.

Marnie settled herself again at the foot of the cot. She said carefully, “Until Leah comes back with more.” Or Max finds us. Or we die.

“I see,” said the Elf. He handed the bottle back to Marnie.

Marnie bit her lip. “You should have a small sip anyway, if you’re thirsty.”

“I’m not,” said the Elf with forced nonchalance. “Why don’t you go ahead?”

“Maybe later,” said Marnie. She wrapped her arms around her legs again. The Elf closed his eyes and lay very still. Was he asleep, or only resting? Marnie couldn’t tell. She watched him. She watched him, and time ticked past. It seemed like a very long time, and Leah Slaight didn’t come, and Max didn’t burst in with the cavalry, and eventually Marnie, too, closed her eyes, and finally,
finally
, let a stream of thoughts from the darkest part of herself flood into her head.

Leah Slaight had been unstable already; what dangerous gobbledygook would be going on in her head now? Surely the Elf’s arrival would push her completely over the edge. She’d decide that her best bet was to kill both Marnie and the Elf, bury them in a marsh, and catch the first plane to some tropical paradise. Or maybe, while Leah was insanely considering her options, the Elf’s leg would go septic and he’d die, screaming horribly, while Marnie watched, and
then
Leah would kill Marnie, or, better idea, simply leave her alone to die in the basement of loneliness and starvation, or no, dehydration would of course get Marnie before starvation did—terrible dry, parched sensations, choke, choke, gasp, the Elf’s body putrefying over on the cot while with her last ounce of strength Marnie painted a death message in blood on the wall … and Max would arrive … too late, too late …

Exhausted, Marnie slipped into nightmare.

Llewellyne gripped the hilt of her heavy sword in both hands, all her muscles ready. She watched the Rubble-Eater warily, attentively. Above her head she heard the hawk calling advice:
Its brain is located directly behind the eye. That’s where you should aim.

Llewellyne nodded tensely.

The Rubble-Eater’s blind eye looked straight into Llewellyne’s, and it was empty of everything. The beast lowered its head and charged.

Llewellyne leapt to the right and swung at the beast’s back with the flat of her sword, connecting with bone-jarring solidity. The hawk screeched in disappointment, disapproval.
What are you doing?
The eye, the eye!
The Rubble-Eater roared, turning about, but Llewellyne’s sword had not even dented the stonelike hide of its back. Llewellyne danced a step or two away and stood poised.

“Back off,” said Llewellyne aloud to the beast. “I don’t want to hurt you.” She had not the least belief, however, that it could understand her. It was said the Rubble-Eater had no language save its own senseless rumbling. It knew only food and not-food and was full of wordless hate. You could not reason with the Rubble-Eater. Everyone knew it.

The hawk was reminding her of it right now.

The Rubble-Eater lowered its head and charged again. At the last second, Llewellyne simply pivoted away and heard the hawk screech as the Rubble-Eater hurtled cleanly past, back to the other side of the cave.

For the third time, the Rubble-Eater charged. And, this time, Llewellyne lifted her chin and positioned her sword.

“
M
arnie! Marn, wake up!”

For a very long moment after opening her dazed eyes to find the Elf with his hand on her shoulder and his concerned face near hers, Marnie actually thought that—like Dorothy and Toto waking up in Oz—they had somehow been transported to a real Paliopolis. It seemed quite natural for the Elf to be there with her, not as a screen glyph, but for real. Dimly she wondered where the Rubble-Eater had gone, and then, with an abrupt sinking of her stomach, she recalled its frantic charge, and her own sword, lifted—Automatically, she groped for her invisible hatpin….

Then, as full awareness and memory returned, the illusion cracked and Marnie blinked in bewilderment. She moaned, burying her face in her hands for an instant before looking up at the Elf. “Sorry,” she croaked.

“You were whimpering,” said the Elf. He was very close, frowning. His hand patted her shoulder awkwardly. “You had a bad dream. Well, no wonder.”

Marnie shuddered. Not meaning to, she nonetheless mumbled, “The Rubble-Eater …”

“The Rubble-Eater?” The Elf’s voice was incredulous, and—was he laughing, now, a little? “Marn, you’re dreaming of imaginary monsters? This place isn’t good enough for you?” The laughter was gentle, though, and Marnie found she didn’t mind the teasing. Gradually her head cleared completely. She realized she was still sitting up on the cot, her back slumped against the wall. How long had she slept? Minutes, hours? She swallowed with difficulty; she could use a—

Oh. For a mad moment, Marnie imagined an entire supermarket row of plastic seltzer bottles with stick arms and legs, waving top hats and kicking together in a chorus line. Lemon-lime, white grape, mango, raspberry … No. She swallowed again, banishing the vision. She looked at the Elf, and then around the cold, dreary little basement room.

“Silly, huh?” she managed. She found herself looking down at the Elf’s hand, large-knuckled and warm on her shoulder. He saw her looking and withdrew it, and she felt relieved and bereft at once.

Somehow he’d shifted himself on the cot, closer to her, sitting up on her end. Marnie found her gaze pulled to his thigh, where the strip of T-shirt was bound. Was that an angry red at the edge of the makeshift bandage? Marnie glanced at the Elf’s face, where the laughter had faded, and she bit back the
inevitable question about how he was feeling. “Did you sleep?” she asked instead.

He hesitated and then shrugged. “I went somewhere for a while. I don’t know if it was sleep, exactly. Ever feel like … like you’re awake but can’t move? Can’t open your eyes, can’t shift your body? You’re conscious, or you think you are, but you’re not sure, because you might just be dreaming that you’re awake. I’m not describing it well …”

Marnie
had
felt the way he was describing, and recently, too. Fear curdled in her. She recalled the weight of the Elf’s hand on her shoulder … the warmth of it. She said abruptly, “I bet you have a fever. Let me feel your forehead.” She shifted, rebalancing, and started to reach out.

The Elf recoiled as if she were Leah Slaight. “No, I’m okay.” Marnie stared at him, the rebuff echoing inside her but not yet fully assimilated, and he stared back. Then, to her surprise, his eyes dropped. He said, “Okay, yeah, maybe I do have a fever. I feel kind of hot. It’s okay, though. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

Slowly, of its own accord, Marnie’s hand again stretched out, and this time he didn’t back away. She placed the whole of her palm on the Elf’s forehead. It was like a small oven. She frowned, and the Elf, warily, met her gaze. His eyes looked a little wild; Marnie imagined she could actually see the fever behind them. But she could see sanity there too, and stability. And a deep kind of sureness.

“I’ll be fine,” said the Elf again uncomfortably. He shook her hand off and hunched a shoulder.

Weird, Marnie thought. So weird that in real life—once you got past the bald head and camouflage outfit, that is—the thieving, laughing Elf should seem so … so steadfast. “You ought to lie down,” she said.

Silently he obeyed. Marnie automatically shook the blanket out over him, but he grabbed it and thrust it back toward her. “You’re the one who’s cold. At least …” He hesitated and then propped himself up again on his elbows and looked at her—almost but not quite making eye contact. “I won’t bite. At least let me share it.” But when Marnie didn’t respond, he threw the blanket at her, slumped back down, and turned away, onto his side.

Marnie didn’t move for an entire minute. Or perhaps it was five minutes, or ten, or half an hour. During this time she had some odd thoughts, most of them completely unconnected. She thought about Max and Skye. About Skye, so full of love and so alone. About Jenna Lowry, crying and crying over whatever had happened with hockey boy. Then about Leah Slaight. She felt her fingers curl into tight fists on the blanket. She imagined stabbing Leah, again and again and again and again….

At last, having made no decision that she could name or understand, Marnie found herself shifting to lie down on the cot, on her side, against the Elf’s back. She quickly realized that there was no sense trying to keep an inch or two between them. The cot was narrow, the Elf weighed more than Marnie, and she slid right up against him. Well, so be it. She
got the blanket over both of them and settled uneasily against his hot back, one arm beneath her head, the other awkward at her side.

She closed her eyes and stayed as still as she could. She heard her own breath; it sounded anxious, wheezy. She tried—unsuccessfully—to banish her awareness of the last time she’d been this close to anyone. It had been Skye, of course. Five years, nearly six, since that last hug from Skye, before she boarded her airplane and disappeared forever. The last hug, ever.

The Elf was a furnace, and, after a time, Marnie began to feel warm. Then, miserably, helplessly, she found herself wondering again whether she smelled. She hated herself for it. He was sick with fever, and she was worried about whether he found her repulsive! Talk about insignificant … talk about self-obsessed … what was wrong with her, what?

The Elf was lying very still as well. Marnie would have thought he was asleep, except that she knew he wasn’t. Then he reached back lightly. Marnie felt herself tense up even more as his hand found her arm and then ran down the length of her forearm to her wrist. She felt the brush of his fingers over her pulse, her palm. Then they entwined with hers, and his hand gripped tight. Too tight, for a moment. But then … just there. Gripping. Solid.

Something deep within Marnie hesitated but then—relaxed. Her fingers moved in the Elf’s grasp. And then gripped back, hard. In the time
that followed, they were quiet—not asleep, not moving.

Marnie, for once, did no thinking at all. Instead, with her whole body, she felt what it was like to have allowed another human being near.

M
arnie thought it was perhaps an hour later, though she knew her sense of time was completely messed up. But all at once the Elf stirred and mumbled, hoarsely, “I’ve lost my mind.” He scrambled frantically off the cot, landing on his knees and levering himself to a standing position. He reeled as soon as he was upright, but then regained his balance and, by what seemed like sheer will, traversed the room in a staggering half-run. He grabbed the knob of the door and yanked.

Marnie sat up. “It’s locked, Elf. I checked.”

He ignored her. His breath sounded choppy. He was staring at the door, at the frame. He wavered again and leaned one hand against the door to support himself while, head thrown slightly back, he kept on staring. “It opens out,” he said.