Texting the Underworld (20 page)

Javier blushed. “Why can't you eat?”

Nergal beamed at him. “What an intelligent question. Part of the answer is that we don't eat because we don't have to, much as we may crave it at times.” He watched Glennie—pale, but determinedly nonchalant—pop a potato chip into her mouth, and kept staring at her while she chewed it. “But also, one mouthful would make me mortal.”

“Sort of like Ashling not touching Worldcraft.” Glennie crammed in another chip and chewed as if her life depended on it.

“Yes, but the effect of clothing—or anything we touch—ends when we stop touching it. Food becomes part of us, and the effect is permanent.”

“What's so bad about that?” Glennie asked, spewing crumbs.

“Well, the lion's feet would be inconvenient if I were mortal, to say nothing of the tail,” Nergal said. “And . . . forgive me, I am used to being myself. I have no wish to be like you.”

“So,” Javier said. “If Ashling ate, like, a potato chip—” Glennie waved a chip enticingly.

“She would become mortal, but for a banshee this would be especially unfortunate. She would be unable to fulfill her quest, and she would be so distraught that she would rush to end her mortal life. She would wind up like . . . Perhaps she has told you about Maeveen?”

Ashling buried her face in her hands.

“Who's Maeveen?” Javier asked.

“We saw her in the Underworld,” Glennie said. “She screams a lot.”

“But . . . Persephone,” Conor said.

Nergal averted his gaze from Glennie's potato chips. “I beg your pardon?”

“Persephone. She ate three pomegranate seeds in Hades and she had to stay there three months out of every year. But the rest of the time she could come back to this world.”

“The Persephone tale has been embroidered.” Nergal clearly didn't approve of embroidery. “Hades is the Underworld, of course, and there is no food there. Utter nonsense, typical of the Greeks. Like putting coins in their mouths to take them to Charon, as if the Underworld had any use for coins.”

Javier had been silent, pondering. But now he spoke up: “What if she ate human food—I mean, food from this world—when she'd already keened for the Death? That would keep her from going nuts, wouldn't it?”

Nergal shook his head. “Part of her charge is to escort the Dear Departed to the Underworld. She cannot do that as a mortal.”

“But what if she ate when she got there?” Javier persisted. “If she turned mortal there, wouldn't she . . . I dunno, go back into the system? Like, get reborn?”

“Possibly. But you disappoint me, boy. I just told you: There is no food in the Underworld, and there never will be. We cannot take Worldcraft home with us, at least not on our persons. And even if we could, food spoils there at an exceptional rate, rotting to nothing within minutes. Something to do with the vagaries of Underworld time, I believe.”

Javier-silence, of the grumpy variety. Then: “Why can't you do whatever you want? Aren't you, like, gods or something?”

“Oh, no.” Nergal waved the thought away. “Demigods, at most. We have to follow the rules.”

“But who made the rules?”

Nergal smiled. “Well, now, that's the question, isn't it? We're not even exactly sure what some of them are, notably the ones that govern death and rebirth. That's why we're so careful about our records—we keep seeking a pattern. But if there is one, we've failed to find it.”

“The mysteries of death.” Glennie had eaten an entire large bag of potato chips in five minutes. She looked sick.

Nergal sighed. “I get tired of that phrase. Sometimes I think we use it as an excuse for not trying to find the answers, not taking a chance. We are too comfortable as we are, perhaps.”

Ashling slumped against the couch, woebegone. “Nergal, why are you here?”

“Ah.” Nergal brightened up. “I am here to acquire . . . phones, I think you called them. We believe they could be useful to us, although I personally hope we don't have to have the little
boop-boop-boop
men in them. And since I'm here anyway, I thought I'd stop by and see if you understood how your death choice will work.”

“I could figure it out,” Ashling said. “I am the smartest of all the—”

“Yes,” Nergal said. “But a truly smart person seeks information from every possible source. I—if you will pardon the boast—am a very good source.”

“So what do we need to know?” Conor's heart lifted. Maybe there was a way out of this after all.

“The main thing,” Nergal said, “is that you will not choose the time of the Death, merely which person is to become the Dear Departed. The Death will draw near; Ashling will feel it coming and begin to keen. If you are nearby, you will point at the person you designate. If you do not hear the keen or do not take immediate action, the Death will proceed as originally fated.”

Glennie opened another bag of potato chips.

“Do you know when the Death will be?” Conor asked Nergal.

“No.”

“So I have to stick close to Ashling all the time and make sure there are lots of O'Neills around.”

“Yes.”

“I don't get why you're the one making all the decisions.” Glennie selected a potato chip, scrutinized it, and put it back. “It's
my
death we're talking about.”

“The Lady chose me to challenge the Birds,” Conor said. “And the Birds said it's my decision.”

“Maybe I
want
to be the one. Did you ever think of that?” She turned to Javier, eyes unnaturally bright. “The Underworld was awesome. It's got Nergal, plus a guy with a dog's head. Plus, I made friends with a tiger.”

“Get that thought out of your head right now,” Grump said. “You're not going to be the one, and that's final.”

Glennie folded her arms tight over her chest, playground scowl in full bloom. The effect was somewhat diminished when she gave a tremendous burp.

“Excuse you,” Conor said.

“Shut up, Pixie.”

“He does not like to be called ‘Pixie,'” Ashling said. “He likes to be called ‘dude.'”

“Glennie,” Conor said, “you wouldn't stay in the Other Land forever, you know.” (“If you are fortunate,” Ashling muttered.) “You'd get a whole new life and you wouldn't remember this one at all. You wouldn't be you.”

Glennie shrugged, getting paler by the minute.

“You might wear too-short jeans and a too-big orange polyester T-shirt,” Javier said. “And lumberjack boots.”

Glennie gave him a dirty look. “So what?”

“You might be a total wimp like me,” Conor said.

Glennie burst into tears and hurled herself at him. Shocked, he patted her back, her arms around his neck, her fluffy pink headband sticking uncomfortably in his ear.

“Conor.” Grump's chin was quivering. “I turned my back and my little Jeannie died. Let me save Glennie. Please, kiddo. Please.”

Conor pushed Glennie away. “I need to think.”

Nergal leaned forward. “You could make this go as you wish, you know,” he said to Ashling. “You could fly the little girl away so no one is around when the Death comes.”

Ashling nodded.

Nergal patted her knee. “But you will not do that, will you?”

Ashling gave a long, wet sniff. “I want it to be as he . . . as they would wish.”

“I'm not a little girl,” Glennie said. “I'm ten. Little girls are nine or younger. And it's
my
death we're talking about here.”

“This is a great sacrifice Ashling is making.” Nergal was looking at Ashling but Conor knew who he was really talking to. “She has wished for a new life ever since she lost the old one. Eternity is a terrible thing, if you're not born to it like me. Even I have to work hard to stay interested.”

Conor contemplated his surroundings. Ashling's bowed head. Glennie, brave but panicky. Grump, lying back on his cushions, Arctic White.

It was too much. “Why does it have to be so hard?” he burst out. “How come
every
one has to lose? It's not fair.”

Ashling shook her head. “No. It is not.”

“I sometimes think unfairness is the only pattern there is.” Nergal began pulling his boots on again. “But, fair or unfair, I know you will all do the right thing. Conor, dude, I am not sure what a
wimp
is, but I think you are not one of those.” He stood up to tuck his tail back into his pants. “Now. Where may I shop for phones?”

“Do you have money?” Javier asked. A reasonable question, Conor thought.

“Yes,” Nergal said. “I have been here before. Where do you think we got our computers?”

Javier's jaw dropped. “You have computers? What kind?”

“Laptops,” Glennie said. “Super-old tan ones.”

“I thought you couldn't touch Worldcraft,” Javier said to Nergal.

“Ah.” Nergal smiled. “Worldcraft negates some of our more—er—
mysterious
powers and attributes. Conor will tell you that the Cailleach had to take off her laptop before she could attack him. But computers are a tremendous help in our everyday activities. I hope cell phones will prove the same.”

“Okay,” Javier said. “But how do you get them there? You said you can't carry stuff in.”

“I must have a mortal with me to carry the phones.” Nergal raised his eyebrows at Javier. “That mortal would, of course, be home before his parents knew he was gone. Would you take me to buy phones, boy? Perhaps you would like to see the Underworld for yourself.”

Javier beamed.

Conor wondered if the Adventure Boys had a badge for this.

Three streets west of 36A Crumlin Street, at 42 Kaicey Street, lived one Richard O'Neill. That afternoon, when Grump was taking a nap, Conor hauled Glennie and Ashling to this Richard O'Neill's front door.

“What are we supposed to do now? Set a trap for the poor guy?” Glennie asked. She kept insisting that she was looking forward to the Underworld. But when a spider dropped down from Grump's ceiling after Nergal and Javier left, she didn't snag its thread on her finger and chase Conor around with it. She took it outside and deposited it on the railing, then erupted in tears.

“I'm not going to let you die, Glennie,” Conor had said as she snuffled and snorted. He repeated that now, sitting on the stoop at Richard O'Neill's house.

“I'm
supposed
to die,” Glennie said. “It's not right to choose somebody else.”

“The Three are in charge,” Ashling said. “They say it's up to Conor. What is supposed to happen is whatever he decides.”

She didn't call him “Conor-boy,” he noticed. She sounded formal, as if they'd just met.

“That's right,” he said. “I outsmarted the Birds, so I get to say.”

The fact that he agreed with Ashling seemed to encourage her. “Conor, I did not know about this choice they have given you. I did not.”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“How could she know?” Glennie said. “She never saw the Birds in action before.”

“She's lived there sixteen hundred years. You're telling me she never met those Birds?” He was talking as if Ashling wasn't even there, which was rude. He wanted it to be rude.

“I had met the Birds, Conor, had even cared for them. But I never saw anyone make the challenge—it hardly ever happens. I knew only what the Lady told us about their powers.”

“That makes sense,” Glennie said.

“It was the Lady who fooled you, fooled us all,” Ashling persisted. “She's tricky. I warned Davey O'Neill of that very fact when he was in the hostel.”

“Hospital,” Conor said. “So now what? You hang around to see if I wimp out and you get my sister as your Death?”

She was silent, head bowed. Then she whispered, “I don't know what I want.”

“Conor, you're being a jerk,” Glennie said. “It's not Ashling's fault. She did her best for us.”

They'd all done their best.

“You were trying to do something good,” Glennie said softly, “but you were trying to stop death. And we can't. Death comes no matter what.”

Ashling straightened, sitting beside him, and met his gaze. The sun was warm on his face.
Like Beltine, the bench by the stone wall.
Her smile was the same as it was then.

Every bit as sad.

Richard O'Neill opened his door. “Hello there. Nice to see you again.” Because, of course, it was the Richard O'Neill from the hospital emergency room, complete with the three-legged cane and the oxygen prongs in his nose. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I'm doing a genealogy project for school,” Conor heard himself say. Glennie shot him an admiring look. “Do . . . do you know who your ancestors are?”

Mr. O'Neill adjusted his oxygen prongs, thinking. “I know some. Listen, would you kids . . . I mean, would you want to come in? Your mothers probably tell you not to go into strange houses. Mine always did.”

“Don't offer us candy,” Glennie said. “I'm sure it'll be fine. I mean, your last name
is
O'Neill.”

“They know where we are,” Conor lied, just in case. “If we don't come home, they'll know where to find us.”
And maybe you'll be dead anyways,
he thought. Anguish washed over him.

Richard O'Neill's living room had a saggy old couch and two easy chairs, all covered with nubbly bedspreads. In the room beyond, the dining room table and chairs were piled high with books and newspapers. French doors overlooked a tiny, cluttered backyard, an easel set up in front of them.

Unlike the furniture, the art on the walls was dust-free and in good condition: landscapes, people, flower arrangements, all painted in bright colors.

“Ohhh,” Ashling said. “Lovely wall pieces.”

Mr. O'Neill gave a half smile that was the same thing as a blush. “They're mine. I used to teach high school art. I don't do that anymore. Don't even paint.” He jerked his head at his wheeled oxygen tank, which rolled along beside him like a dog at heel. “I get too tired.”

They all sat down. Mr. O'Neill told them to call him “Richard,” but did not offer them anything to eat or drink, so that was all right. Conor borrowed pencil and paper—“Not exactly prepared, are you?” Richard said—and got the names of all the ancestors his host could remember. That took about ten minutes, and then they all sat there.

“So, any of my ancestors sound familiar?” Richard asked.

“No,” Conor said. “But my grump will know them, I bet.”

“Oh, yeah. Davey will know.”

“You should have listened to what he told the Cailleach,” Ashling said.

“The Cailleach?” Richard said. “There's somebody around here who says she's the Cailleach?”

Dead (or at least terminally ailing) silence.

“She doesn't just
say
—” Ashling began, but Glennie kicked her. A kick doesn't hurt a banshee, but it gets its point across.

Conor tried a carefree laugh. It came out “Ha! Ha!”—neither carefree nor really a laugh. “It's this old lady who dresses up. Ha! Ha!”

“And for some reason your grandfather was telling her his ancestry?”

“She . . . she likes genealogy, too. Ha! Ha!”

“Do you like your life?” Glennie asked, getting to the point.

“Strange question.” Richard ruffled his hair—oddly, the same way Conor's dad did. “To be honest, I was hoping for better.”

“Why do you have that thing in your nose?” Ashling asked. “And that . . . that metal object.”

“Oxygen tank,” Conor muttered.

“Oxen sank?” Ashling said.

“Emphysema,” Richard said. “From smoking. I was okay until I hit fifty-five. But now look at me.”

Ashling waggled her mouth a bit, trying to fit it around
emphysema.

“So,” Glennie asked, “do you wish you were dead?”

“Glennie!” Conor wasn't close enough to kick her.

The question seemed to interfere with Richard's breathing. “What the heck . . . kind of a question is that?”

“She didn't mean anything by it,” Conor said. “These things kinda come out of her mouth, you know?”

“I know, I have a younger sister, too. But I gotta say, that didn't seem like a question that just popped out.”

Ashling was whispering to herself, still trying to conquer
emphysema.
In her distraction, her braid rose slowly into the air.

Richard O'Neill started coughing so hard his breath came out in wheezes. Conor leaped up in alarm. “Mr. O'Neill . . . Richard . . . is there something I can get you? Water?”

Richard nodded, trying to catch his breath. Conor found the kitchen beside the dining room, and hustled back with a coffee mug full of water. Glennie, meanwhile, started pounding Richard on the back whether he wanted her to or not.

“Enough,” he gasped, trying to sip the water and slopping it down his front. “Thank you . . . Miss . . . O'Neill.” He refused her kind offer of a Fruity Fooler.

They waited while he got his lungs under control. He put the mug down with a shaking hand. “All . . . right,” he wheezed. “Who . . . or what . . . are you?”

“We really are the O'Neills from Crumlin Street,” Conor said. “Ashling, though. She's, well—”

“Banshee,” Richard wheezed.

“Another who knows the old tales,” Ashling said approvingly.

“And somehow . . . you, the O'Neills of Crumlin Street . . . have met the Cailleach at the door . . . to the Lady's realm.”

“It's sort of Nergal's realm, too.” Conor couldn't believe he was saying this to a complete stranger. “He seems to have a lot to say about what goes on.”

“He's Babylonian,” Ashling said.

“And we met Charon,” Glennie said. “He's Greek.”

“Why don't you . . . tell me everything?” Richard O'Neill wheezed.

So they did, although they stopped abruptly before the part where Conor started trying to find other O'Neills.

Richard, who had enjoyed the tale so far, turned serious. “So now you're here, asking about my genealogy and whether I wish I were dead. Am I right in thinking that you'd like me to volunteer for death duty?”

Conor couldn't believe he was sitting in somebody's living room, asking him to die so he, Grump, and Glennie could stay alive.
How did I get here?
Five days ago, his biggest worry was a nonpoisonous spider, slightly bigger than a pencil eraser.

“As you can imagine, kids,” Richard was saying, “this will take a little thought. My inclination, frankly, is to say no. I may not have the life I expected, but I do enjoy things. Cheeseburgers. Movies. Talking to my grandkids on the phone. The Red Sox, most of the—”

“You have grandkids?” Glennie didn't look happy to hear that.

“Yeah, but they live in California. I hardly ever see them.” Richard played with the tube to his oxygen tank. “Cheeseburgers aside, I won't say I'm not tempted to end this life and start another. You don't have any idea when this would happen, I guess, right?”

“No,” Conor said. “We won't know until Ashling starts to keen.”

“Let me think about it,” Richard said. “If I hear a keen start and I want to be the one, I'll try to make it to your house. I'll use that alley by the Wilsons' if you want to come meet me.”

“I don't know that we'll have that much time.” Conor got up. “But it's better than nothing. Thanks for listening to us, Mr. O'Neill . . . Richard. We're sorry we disturbed you and . . . everything. Don't worry about this, okay?”

Richard stood up, too, teetering. He steadied himself on his oxygen cart. “I haven't decided, you know. I might—”

Conor shook his head. “Forget it. Please. We're sorry we came.”

“But Conor-boy,” Ashling said. “Perhaps this man
wants
to die.”

Conor felt as if the Cailleach was draining him again: cold, exhausted, discouraged. He followed Glennie to the door.

“Don't worry . . . kids,” Richard wheezed after them. “Something will work out.”

Conor waved and led Glennie and Ashling down the coldest, loneliest street in the world.

“Richard O'Neill's not going to be the Death,” Conor said, back at Grump's.

“Good,” Grump said. “This is a family matter.”

“He's family,” Conor said.

Grump gave him the Davey O'Neill Special, the look that said,
Clever, kiddo, but we both know you're full of it.

And he was full of it, Conor knew. He pounded the arm of his chair with his fist. “There's
gotta
be a way out of this. Like, a way to get the Lady to choose someone else.”

“You tried that already, Conor-boy.” Ashling was sagged up against the couch, sad as an old ragbag. “You've tried everything. It comes down to a decision.”

Or no decision,
Conor thought. Which, of course, would be a decision.

Javier rapped on the door and stuck in his head. “Can I come in?”

“Join the Death watch,” Grump said. “Want a soda or something, kid?” No attempt at Spanish. Conor supposed this was a change for the better—especially for Javier—but somehow it felt like Grump wasn't himself.

“Got any juice?” Javier asked, virtuous. He was happier than Conor had ever seen him—bigger, somehow, and glowing just like Dad when he talked about the City Council.

Nergal came in, too, carrying three large shopping bags from Digital Outlet. He looked dazed. “Did you know there was a thing called television?” he asked Grump.

“It's a brain drain,” Grump said. “Radio and something to do with your hands, that's the ticket.”

Grump sounded so cheerful, as if he were getting ready to leave for Ireland or something.
He's so sure I'm going to point at him,
Conor thought.
And then we'll never see each other again. Doesn't he care?

“Did you get your cell phones?” Glennie asked Javier.

Javier rifled around in one of the shopping bags. “And chargers and . . . look, headsets! So they can use their computers and still talk to each other on the phone.”

Nergal leaned against the mantelpiece next to the picture of Jeannie. “I've never seen anything like that place. When I bought our computers, I went to a little store and that was all they had.”

“I'm going be the Underworld's technology adviser,” Javier said, glowing. “Nergal's hauling me and the phones over there in a week or so.”