The Ever Breath (18 page)

“This may be an awkward time to say it,” Ickbee said to Truman, “but I am awfully sorry I almost cracked your head with a rolling pin.”

“That’s okay,” Truman said. “No harm done!”

Everything was silent for a chilly moment except for the low, happy growls of the blood-betakers.

And then, by some strange miracle, the front door was thrown open again and there stood a massive man with a squarish head and one swollen black eye. “Sorry to interrupt! Otwell Prim here, Jarkman Ogre from the Webbly Wood, with
my fire-breather Chickie!” He let out an angry war whoop and brandished a huge, gilded—if slightly charred—sword.

The angry, well-armed ogre named Otwell Prim had a mouse in his breast pocket—a well-dressed mouse wearing a clever little smirk. The mouse gave a hearty wave. “Binderbee Biggby here!” he shouted, and then he let out a war-whooping squeak.

Praddle lifted her head and blinked.

“Praddle,” Truman whispered, relief flooding through him. “You’re okay.”

She gave a small nod.

They were backlit suddenly by a hot flare of fire that shone through the windows in a bright flash. The fire terrified the blood-betakers. They let go of Ickbee, Camille, and Truman and shuffled to the corners of the hut, where they cowered, snorting fearfully.

“Settle down now, Chickie,” Otwell the Ogre said over his shoulder. “I think we can handle this peaceably. They’re just some frightened blood-betakers, after all!”

Binderbee, the little mouse, was pacing circles on the wood floor. He was flushed with excitement and couldn’t stop saying, “I’ve never come to someone’s rescue before! I mean, not like that! It was really something, wasn’t it?” The mewlers eyed him hungrily, but kept a polite distance.

Everyone else in the room was still a little stunned.

Otwell Prim had ushered the blood-betakers out of Ickbee’s crumbling hut at swordpoint. And with a few encouraging bursts of flame from Chickie, the blood-betakers darted off into the woods. Otwell strode back into the room. “Well, now! Off to get the Ever Breath, aren’t we?”

The room was quiet.

Then Camille said, “Excuse me, but who are you two?”

“Otwell Prim, Herdsman of Fire-Breathers—”

“We know that!” Coldwidder broke in. “Why are you two here?”

Binderbee picked up his briefcase and popped it open. “I uncovered a letter from Cragmeal!” he said, and he pulled out the original tea-stained letter and gave it a shake.

“A letter from our dad?” Truman said.

“Ah, so you are, in fact, the children of Cragmeal!” Binderbee said.

Truman and Camille exchanged a glance, then nodded.

“Imagine that!” Otwell said with a smile, and then he gave a deep bow. “At your service!”

“Thanks,” Camille said.

“No need to bow,” Truman added.

“Are you sure the letter is from our father?” Camille, always a little suspicious, asked. She pushed Truman’s glasses up the bridge of her nose.

“One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” Binderbee said.

“Hey,” Artwhip said, sitting up in the wagon. “That’s the letter that came with my hat. You stole that from me! That’s my mission!”

“No, no, no. You threw it away. I
saved
it!” Binderbee said.

“Can I at least read it?” Artwhip asked.

Binderbee handed it to him.

“We’d like to read that after you’re finished,” Camille said with some agitated impatience in her voice.

“I was head of my class at Wesslon and was a very good scientist,” Binderbee informed them. “I used a chemical to draw out the original deposits of ink. I read that letter and knew that Cragmeal was for the good, and I wanted to do all I could to help him find the Ever Breath and help clear his name.” He turned to Artwhip. “And then your father seemed to know that I was trying to protect you and Cragmeal, and he sent me to find Otwell Prim—to help me on this quest.”

Artwhip looked up from the letter, confused. “My father? Helped you protect me … and Cragmeal?” He laughed. “My father is Official Affairs through and through. He’d never do that.”

Otwell spoke up then. “But he did. Your father, once upon a time, was a jarkman himself. But then when you were born—”

“A jarkman?” Artwhip looked paler.

“Well, he worried that being a jarkman would make his life too dangerous. He joined the other side—for your sake.”

Artwhip stared at the letter in his shaking hands.

“Love can make you do things you never thought you’d do,” Ickbee said.

“Can we see the letter now?” Truman asked.

“Do you mind?” Camille added.

Artwhip handed it to them.

Truman and Camille sat down on the small bed and spread the letter on their knees. It was a full page, scribbled in their father’s handwriting, but the words looked pale, and as they tried to read the letter, some of the words faded and others darkened.

“It’s disappearing,” Truman said.

“What do you mean?” Binderbee asked.

“The words,” Camille said. “Not all of them are staying on the page.”

Ickbee walked over. “Read the words that you see,” she said. “It could be an enchanted letter. Your father could have prepared for the chance that you would see this letter with your very own eyes. An enchanted letter allows for the right message to reach the right people.”

The page looked watery, almost translucent. And soon there were only seven words left:

Truman felt a great rush of love. It swelled in his chest. He looked at Camille. She was teary-eyed. Her chin quivered once and she bit her lip.

“What does it say?” Artwhip asked.

“It’s part of a song, that’s all,” Camille said. “One that he sang to us every night.”

“But it means he’s really here,” Truman added. “I was waiting for some kind of proof. This is it!”

Camille reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out the photograph that Swelda had given her. “He’s a forever child here. Swelda gave me this.”

Truman cupped the picture in his hands. “It’s him. The boy in the museum—I saw him in the snow globe!”

“What museum?” Camille asked.

“One with all kinds of strange exhibits and dead animals and a chopped-off finger in a glass jar,” Truman said excitedly. “He’s really here and he needs us!”

Camille shook her head. “Don’t get all emotional. We have to keep thinking logically about everything or we’ll turn to mush!”

“Camille,” Truman said, his voice quiet, “things are different here. Can’t you feel it? This place, in some strange way, belongs to us—or we belong to it.”

“Yes, yes, heard it before. We’re gramaryes. We’re magical—we’ll have our magical afflictions or our magical gifts. Right. Fine. But—”

“I heard you talking to me,” Truman said. “I was looking at you through the globe and I heard you and I talked back to you and you heard me too. Didn’t you?”

Everyone’s eyes turned to Camille.

“Did you hear him talking to you?” Ickbee asked.

Camille looked at the letter in her hands. “Yes, I heard him. I didn’t want to really believe it. Just that one time, though.”

“Ha-HA!” Ickbee exclaimed. “And did you hear him with both of your ears?”

Camille thought about it. “Just my right ear,” she said.

“And I only heard you in my left ear,” Truman said.

Ickbee clapped. “Just like Swelda and me and our seeing eyes! Ho my! Ho dear! See how the long line lives on?”

“They’re really gramaryes,” Otwell said.

Artwhip and Coldwidder were smiling. Binderbee nodded and shook his small fist victoriously.

“Let’s not make a big deal about it,” Camille said. “So we
can hear each other speaking—where we come from, people do it all the time with cell phones.”

“I think it
is
a big deal,” Truman said. “A very big one.”

Camille handed the letter to Artwhip. “Here. This really belongs to you.”

“No,” he said. “You keep it.”

Camille looked at Truman. “Do you want it?”

“Yes,” he said. “But I don’t have any pockets.”

Truman could tell that Camille didn’t want to hold the letter. Something about it scared her. Maybe she was afraid because it did mean something to her. As she folded the letter gently and slipped it into her pocket with the photograph, Truman saw that her hands were shaking, ever so slightly.

•  •  •  •

Over the course of the next half hour, everyone moved quickly. Ickbee held up what looked like a fisherman’s tackle box. “My stitchery kit! I’ll stitch up the bleeder. I’m not a flesh tailor, exactly, but I do know how to sew.”

“Are you sure it’s necessary?” Artwhip asked.

She inspected the wound, nodding away. Coldwidder helped move Artwhip from the wagon to the couch. Ickbee handed him Truman’s snow globe. “Gaze upon this,” she said. “Take your mind off the pain.” Artwhip held the globe but squeezed his eyes shut, and she set to work.

Meanwhile, Coldwidder and Otwell helped load things onto Chickie’s scaly back. Ickbee had canteens for water, a lantern hooked to a pole, and a fire-starter kit, which, with a fire-breather on the tip, seemed a little silly to Truman and
Camille. But they did as they were told and prepared food, with instructions from Ickbee to unload her cupboards into deep rucksacks—root jerky, hardened fatty lard cakes, tins of stew, fresh tarty-tarts. Truman handed out woolen clothes knit by mewlers—lopsided hats, sweaters with different-length sleeves, three-fingered gloves. Truman, Camille, Artwhip, and Coldwidder bundled up in layers of clothes—Otwell was too large and Binderbee too small for any of the items.

Finally Ickbee finished her row of tidy little knots on Artwhip’s chest, and Chickie was loaded up. Except for Otwell, who was outside making sure that Chickie had enough bark to eat, everyone was huddled around Artwhip.

“You okay?” Coldwidder asked Artwhip. “If you ride on Chickie and the rest of us walk, you think you can make the trip?”

Artwhip nodded. He pushed himself up and swung his feet to the floor, wincing through the pain of his stitches. “Truman, Camille, how about you tell us what you see in the globe one more time before you go?”

Truman and Camille rushed over, shook the globe, and stared into it. It was empty except for the snow itself—a white slate—and then words emerged:

“Who in the world is T.T.S.?” Artwhip shouted.

“What’s the Dark Heart?” Camille asked.

“I’m not sure I want to know,” Truman said, seething over the word
evil
.

“Camille,” Ickbee cried, “look in
your
seeing globe!” Camille had hidden her globe in a cupboard and now she whipped the door open and pulled it out. “It’s the carved wooden hand on the Ever Breath’s pedestal!” She shook her head and then turned to look at the others, her face slack and pale.

“And?” Truman asked. “What’s wrong?”

“The hand,” she said. “It’s about halfway there.”

“Halfway where?” Artwhip asked.

“It’s almost closed up,” she said. “Into a fist.”

Otwell came back into the hut. He barely fit, what with his hulking shoulders and the walls caving in. He noticed the quiet intensity, the faces shadowed with gloom. “What’s wrong now?”

“We’re headed into the Dark Heart,” Coldwidder said.

“You’ll have to travel straight through the night. There’s no time for sleep,” Ickbee said.

“We should arrive by dawn.” Coldwidder paced back and forth. “If we don’t get attacked too many times.”

Truman didn’t like the sound of that, but he didn’t want to ask any questions just then. They had to hurry.

Ickbee was staying behind, defending her post. “I can’t leave my mewlers and the passageway. Someone’s got to keep propping up the hut!” she said as the mewlers climbed over and around her with nervous energy.

Artwhip, Coldwidder, Otwell, and Binderbee—in Otwell’s breast pocket—said their quick farewells to Ickbee.

But when Truman and Camille came up to say goodbye, Ickbee grabbed them, hugged them to her chest, and began to cry. “I know that you have to go, but I hate to see it,” she told them. “Be careful! Promise me?”

They promised, their voices muffled by her sweater.

Then she released them, but she kept on crying and
blowing her nose into her hanky. Once they’d left, she waved the hanky at them from the doorway of the withering hut.

Praddle was poking along through the snow, hopping from fire-breather footprint to fire-breather footprint, following Coldwidder up the path.

“Praddle!” Truman called.

She turned around.

“You should stay here,” he said.

Praddle shook her head and mewled defiantly.

He ran to her and picked her up. “Come on,” he said, rubbing her between her ears. “Ickbee might need you.”

She stared at him and then purred, “Be carrreful!” She jumped from his arms and ran back to the house.

“Aren’t you allergic to those creatures?” Camille asked, sniffling.

“Nope! Crazy thing, huh? I always wanted a dog. Why not a mewler?”