The Ever Breath (17 page)

Binderbee stood in that spot, unable to move, unable to turn away from the song. He thought of his mother piling blankets on his father as he was dying, trying to keep him alive, warm, how she rubbed his feet with her paws and kept his lips wet with water from a rag. It was the most beautiful song he’d ever heard, and he was lucky that the bogwoman
stopped singing, because only then could he remember that he was supposed to be looking for the Ever Breath, only then could he remember that he was trying to make it to Otwell’s house in the Webbly Wood, only then could he return to himself.

He shook the song from his ears, combed his whiskers, and wondered if he’d have frozen to death in that spot if the song had gone on, for that was the legend of the bogpeople. He didn’t want to think about it.

He pressed on through the reeds on the soupy edges of the bog, and at length he smelled a wood fire. He climbed onto a rock and, with a broader view, saw a trail of smoke in the sky—what might well be a sign of Otwell Prim’s chimney at work. He clambered down and strode along quickly now. And soon enough he saw the mailbox with “The Prims” written on it in white letters.

A long path led to the house. As Binderbee headed down it, he saw an ogre with a squarish head and large nostrils. The ogre had a swollen eye, so puffed it was almost sealed shut. He was staggering around his yard, holding a broken broom handle. His wife, who’d sunk to her knees, was crying in the yard. She was a banshee and her cry, sharp and keen, hurt Binderbee’s sensitive ears. It was a rude change from the bog-woman’s song, that was for certain.

The smoke that Binderbee had seen wasn’t coming from a chimney, however. It was coming from the charred remains of the house itself. It sat hollow and blackened—all that was left was its stone foundation.

Off to one side was a broken fence, and beside it, a smoldering barn. A few domesticated fire-breathers were sniffing
the smoky wind and nibbling at the burnt tufts of grass that showed through the snow.

Binderbee peeked out from behind a tree. The ogre looked confused and terribly sad. Was he crying too? Binderbee was sure he saw tears. How tough could a blubbering ogre be? Binderbee screwed up his courage and walked toward the ogre.

“What has happened here?” he asked.

Frightened, the ogre brandished his broken broom handle. “Who’s there?”

“Me!” Binderbee shrieked as loudly as he could. “Down here!”

“Oh,” the ogre said, “a mouse.”

Binderbee didn’t like the way he’d said that.
Oh, a mouse
. It was offensive. But Binderbee was used to this kind of insult. He rolled his eyes and proceeded. “Who was here?”

“Three wild fire-breathers,” the ogre said. “They tried to take over my herd.”

“They burnt us to nothin’!” the banshee screamed furiously. “Devils! Every one of them!”

“I’ve been sent to you for protection,” Binderbee said. “Ostwiser sent me. Aren’t you a jarkman?”

The ogre looked at his wife.

Her eyes were fixed on the mouse.

“No one’s called me a jarkman in a long time,” the ogre said. “But I am and always will be a jarkman and proud of it.” He raised himself to his full height.

“Cragmeal’s children are coming through,” Binderbee whispered. “They’re set to arrive at the home of Ickbee in the Ostley Wood. The Ever Breath is gone.”

Otwell stared at him, steely eyed. He paced back and forth amid the rubble.

“What’s all this?” the banshee cried. “What are you two plotting?”

“You’ve come to the right ogre,” Otwell said. “I’ll do whatever I can to help!”

“The air’s still warm from the breath of those beasts,” the banshee said, “and you’re going to leave me!”

The ogre ignored his wife. “Let me go get my best weapons.” He marched into the burnt house.

His wife followed, shouting. “Leaving me with all of this mess to clean up, are you?”

He emerged a few moments later with a blackened sword, a dagger, and a switchblade fitted into scabbards strung around his meaty middle.

The banshee was yelling at him still. “You haven’t touched those things in ages! You’re all wobbly in the waist now! You’ll be beat in two seconds! All of your swordsman medals have tarnished, you know!”

He whistled for his fire-breather and it trotted up from where it had been grazing. It had a massive scaled body, a smoking snout, and restless spiny wings that were obviously too small to lift its body into the sky. “Settle, Chickie,” he said, petting the fire-breather’s long neck.

His wife was still berating him. “Mark my words, you’ll get yourself killed and then you’ll have me to answer to! I’ll say ‘I told you so! I told you so!’ for the rest of your miserable life!”

The ogre bent down and put out his hand for Binderbee to jump onto. “Woman,” he said gruffly to his wife, “this is a
jarkman mission. Jarkmen protect and serve. This is my duty, regardless of whether I myself live or die!”

The banshee sighed. “I didn’t even get a slab of meat for your swelped eye!” she said.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Did you actually win medals?” Binderbee asked.

“When I was a boy in the Academy. That was long ago and far away,” Otwell said.

“Does the fire-breather fly?”

“Nope. These domesticated ones fatten up and can’t quite muster the wing strength.” And then he looked at Binderbee. “Would you like to sit in my breast pocket? That way you’ll have a view.”

“Yes,” Binderbee said, tightening his grip on the briefcase containing Cragmeal’s letter. “Thank you!”

And so it was that Otwell Prim the Ogre of the Webbly Wood and Binderbee Biggby of the Elite Biggbys set off for Ickbee’s roothouse in the Ostley Wood.

It was growing dark now and Truman could barely see the path. Coldwidder was up ahead. He’d stolen a delivery wagon from Edwell’s Hops and Chops House and Artwhip was in the wagon, mumbling in a restless sleep. Coldwidder was pulling, Truman was pushing. Praddle was keeping Artwhip’s chest warm, lying across him like a small fur blanket, and the snow globe was wedged in near Artwhip’s back.

The snow was sifting down through the trees, which seemed to be closing in. The forest was filled with howls and moans. Now and then, low rooting grunts would come from the bushes.

“They know something’s wrong,” Coldwidder said. “They can sense the passage’s weakness. Even if they don’t understand it, their magical energy isn’t releasing into the Fixed World. The flow is diminished. They’re becoming wilder, more full of themselves, more living-dream.”

Truman thought about this for a moment. He remembered what Swelda had told them about the Breath World and the Fixed World, how they depended on each other.
“Does that mean that my world, the Fixed World, isn’t getting enough of things like magic and imagination and dreams?” Truman asked.

“It goes both ways! That’s the
point
of a passageway,” Coldwidder said angrily.

“You don’t have to get mad at me,” Truman said.

And then the front wheel hit a rock, shooting Coldwidder forward onto the ground. Coldwidder jumped up and brushed himself off roughly. “You do understand that both worlds could die, right?”

Truman nodded.

“I’m allowed to be a little testy! Cragmeal could have picked
me
for this plum position of guide and protector. But no. I’m called in to clean up the mess!”

“Look,” Truman said, “it’s my father who’s missing, and my
actual
guide who’s been stabbed, and my very own sister who I last saw being surrounded by strange monkeylike creatures with fangs! I get that this is a difficult situation! Okay?”

“Okay,” Coldwidder said apologetically. He grabbed the handle. “Heave-ho! Keep pushing!”

As Truman and Coldwidder made their way over the rough terrain, the howling grew louder. Truman was cold and shivering. His back was sore from being bent almost in two, pushing the wagon, and his legs felt like rubber. Worst of all, the howls seemed to have burrowed into his bones. Each one vibrated within him, rattling his ribs.

Eventually Coldwidder lifted his hand. They came to a stop. Artwhip mumbled something about mutton in his sleep.

“The hut is just up a ways, around this curve,” Coldwidder
announced. They stood there silently for a moment, listening. The snow was ticking on the earth around them, but then there was another howl—a call that echoed through the woods and was met by a responding howl and then a third.

“They’re circling,” Coldwidder whispered.

“What
are
they?”

“Blood-betakers,” Coldwidder said.

Then there was the snap of a tree limb not far off. Truman looked in the direction of the sound. He thought he saw something glitter in the trees—small and low to the ground—but then, in an instant, it disappeared in the snow-dusted underbrush.

“We’re not alone,” Coldwidder said. “Let’s hurry.”

They moved as quickly as they could, bumping the wagon over ruts and roots. At last Truman could see a flicker of light through the windows of Ickbee’s hut, which was puckered and crumbling. In fact, this was exactly the way he’d seen it in the snow globe: there was Camille in the window, wearing the blue hat, the hammer gripped to her chest.

“It’s Camille!” Truman said, but then he realized that the shadows would be shifting, just as they had been in the globe. He looked out among the trees and there he saw three forms lurching in the darkness, moving among the trees. “Hurry up!” Truman urged.

“Going as fast as we can!”

“Slow down! Watch the snow globe!” Truman was worried about it crashing into the side of the wagon and smashing to pieces.

“Fast or slow? Which is it?”

A blood-betaker roared.

“Fast!” Truman shouted.

Coldwidder and Truman were running toward the door, the wagon with Artwhip in it jostling between them. The blood-betakers saw them and let out a chorus of yowls as they started to run through the trees. Truman could hear their feet pounding on the ground, getting louder and closer. Artwhip, lying in the wagon, was being jostled and banged along.

“Hey,” he said hoarsely. “Where are we?”

Praddle nuzzled under Artwhip’s chin, hiding her eyes.

The door to Ickbee’s hut swung open just as they arrived.

“Oh my! Yes! The boy is back! Let them in and shut it quick!” Ickbee cried.

Coldwidder ran in, giving the wagon one last hard yank to get it inside. Truman flew in after him, knocking into a few mewlers along the way. Camille rushed to slam the door, but there in the gap was an arm—furred and muscled—and its clenched fist. Camille threw her weight against the door and so did Coldwidder and Truman, but the arm was attached to a fiercely strong blood-betaker, who, with one shove, sent the three of them sprawling across the floor.

The door banged against the wall, dislodging the fragile dirt ceiling so that parts of it landed on the floor in large chunks. The beast roared in the doorway.

The mewlers arched their backs and hissed.

Truman saw that Camille looked awful—puffy-eyed, red-nosed. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“Been better,” she said. “Interesting outfit.”

“You’re wearing my glasses!” Truman said.

“How did we get here?” Artwhip said, looking dazed.

“Don’t move!” Truman shouted.

Praddle pawed at Artwhip’s shirt, trying to keep him down. Some other mewlers jumped up on Artwhip to help her. Artwhip was too weak to fight them.

The blood-betaker roared again, and then licked his fangs. A few locust fairies darted around the room, disappearing into cupboards, wedging themselves under quilts.

“The woodstove!” Coldwidder said. “Use it to set something on fire. Blood-betakers are afraid of fire.”

“The house is falling to pieces!” Ickbee shouted. “The woodstove is dead!”

Truman saw that the stovepipe was completely disconnected from the wall. They’d have to fight. He pulled out Artwhip’s dagger.

Camille looked at him, her eyes wide. “Do you know how to use that thing?”

“No,” he said. “But I can try.”

Coldwidder pulled his dagger out of the harness on his leg and lunged at the beast. The blood-betaker only smiled, took a few heavy steps into the kitchen, and swiped at him with his claw. Coldwidder dodged and the blood-betaker landed on the kitchen table, smashing it to rubble.

Ickbee screamed and waved her rolling pin over her head.

Camille was on her feet too, wielding the hammer.

Now another blood-betaker was at the door and the third was pushing his way in from behind and letting the door swing shut. The second one threw his weight into the room and grabbed Truman by his jacket. He pulled him in so close that Truman could feel the beast’s hot breath in his face.
Camille struck the blood-betaker in the leg with the claw of the hammer. He roared and, still holding Truman in one arm, grabbed the back of her jacket.

Praddle sprang at the blood-betaker, digging her teeth into his arm, but it barely fazed him. He snapped at her with his massive jaws and then swung her off. She hit a wall and slid to the floor, limp.

“Praddle!” Truman shouted, but she didn’t move.

The other mewlers, their tails curled between their legs, backed away from the beasts.

The blood-betaker who had crushed the table had Coldwidder cornered, and the third blood-betaker was eyeing Artwhip in his wagon—as if he were a tasty dish on a plate. Ickbee struck the beast on the back of his skull with her rolling pin. He looked at her in brief confusion and then reached out, grabbed her, and held her in a headlock.

They were all pinned or cornered or in some way defeated.

This is it
, Truman thought.
The end. They’re going to devour us. We’re going to die here. Painfully
.