The Spindlers (15 page)

T
he bridge was made of very old wood that looked to Liza as though it would rot away at any second. It was very narrow, and they had to go single file—Mirabella, as always, taking up the lead. The bridge swayed dangerously beneath them, and Liza gripped tightly to the frayed rope handles.

She had been eager to cross, but once she was on the bridge she was filled with terror. The distant peak of the second Twin Mountain seemed miles and miles away, and on either side of them was a steep drop, a plummet of thousands of feet toward the River of Knowledge. Now Liza understood why the bridge was called the Bridge of Sighs: The air was filled with ghostly echoes, as though thousands of phantoms were lamenting the travelers' progress.

“Don't like heights, never liked heights, don't like them,” Mirabella chattered nervously.

“Just don't look down,” Liza said, although she very much shared the rat's opinion, and did not feel nearly as confident as she wished to sound. The bridge gave another lurch, and she stifled a scream.

“Don't look down, don't look down, can't look down, got to look straight. Straight, wait, don't want to be late,” Mirabella prattled on, semi-hysterical.

“Please.” Liza was gripping the ropes so hard she could feel blisters developing on her palms. “Please, Mirabella. I am asking you, just this once. Please be quiet.”

“Hush up, shush up,” Mirabella chanted quietly.

At last they were within sight of the solid slate side of the second of the two twin peaks. Liza was tempted to break into a run, but she feared that any quick motions would cause the rotting wood to fall away under their feet. And so they made slow, shuffling progress along the bridge. Liza's heart hammered painfully against her ribs, and her palms burned where the rope slid across her skin.

Just fifteen more feet …
Liza told herself.
Just twelve more feet
. She imagined Patrick standing on the opposite side of the bridge. She focused on his face, held it in her mind, fixated on the three freckles at the tip of his nose, which in summertime merged and multiplied.

The bridge swayed beneath her; the wind sighed and heaved.

And then, underneath the wind, Liza detected another sound. At first she was sure she must be imagining it, and she paused for a moment, straining to hear.

Laughter floated to them through the mist. Someone—a few someones—were laughing in the darkness, among the swirling mists. Laughter rolled and echoed off the jagged rocks. Liza thought she heard bells, too, and a distant drumming, and she was instantly reminded of the time several years earlier when her parents had had their Christmas Eve party, and she had woken up in the middle of the night to the sound of muffled laughter, and crept quietly to the stairs, and seen her mother asleep on the couch, eyes closed, and a few people still in the living room, dancing in bare feet, while her father played the guitar. It was the strangest moment of her life, and had filled her with both amazement and terror. She had not even known that her father knew how to play.

This moment was just like that: Coming across music in such a barren, forbidding place made her feel both awe and fear.

She was so focused on the strange sounds she did not even notice that her feet were no longer on the swaying, tilting bridge; they had crossed over safely.

“Well,” Mirabella said, adjusting her wig. “Well, well. That was interesting. I'm not sure—oh, I'm hardly certain at all—that I like bridges. Nasty things. Swishing and swaying—sashaying!”

“Shhh,” Liza hushed her again. “I'm trying to listen.”

Mirabella muttered something under her breath about Below being a “free place of speech,” but Liza ignored her. There was a new quality to the air, a smokiness, and at first she could hardly believe it.

“Do you smell …” She inhaled deeply and her stomach growled. “Is it possible that … I think I'm smelling …”

Mirabella's eyes suddenly widened, and a spark appeared in their center. “Meat!” the rat cried out. “Meat! Meat to eat!” And she dropped on all fours and began to scamper down the path.

“Wait for me!” Liza called after her. She ran as fast as she could, sending a shower of loose stones hurtling over the edge of the mountain and down toward the river below.

But Liza could not slow down. She had never, ever, ever in her whole life been so hungry: She realized that now. With every stumbling step, the smell of grilling meat grew stronger, and there were other delicious smells that hovered alongside it: hot pancakes and thick maple syrup, steaming bowls of chicken noodle soup, baked macaroni and cheese with buttered bread crumbs, golden french fries, chocolate-chip cookies straight from the oven, oozing butter.

The path turned a corner and opened into a broad, flat clearing, as though a chunk of the mountain had been lifted cleanly away, leaving a flat-bottomed bowl. At its center was a long wooden table piled high with every delicious food Liza could think of, and some she couldn't: roasted turkeys with skins the brown of mahogany; vivid purple grapes that glistened in the cheerful glow of the torches, which had been set all along the periphery of the clearing and filled it with a festive, flickering light.

Four women were sitting at the table, laughing: one with brown hair, one with hair the russet red of an apple, one with jet-black tresses, and one with a braid that was the soft blond of early sunshine. All of them had the same pretty, round faces and large blue eyes, and Liza decided right away that they must be sisters.

They were laughing and singing. The black-haired woman had a tambourine in her pale white hands and was beating out a jangly rhythm while the red-haired woman strummed a tiny guitar. There were red flowers, with bulbs as large as Liza's head, placed all around the table, letting off their own delicious scent—like honey and pine needles and a fresh ocean breeze, all at once. They seemed almost to nod in time to the music.

“Look, sisters,” the red-haired one said, glancing up from the table. “We have visitors.”

The black-haired one laid down her tambourine. All four women turned to stare, and Liza felt her cheeks burning, and swallowed several times. Her mouth was watering, and it was all she could do not to rush to the table and start cramming her cheeks with all the food she could, like a chipmunk.

“H-hello,” Liza said shyly.

“Hello,” the women chorused together. They were so beautiful they were almost frightening, despite their warm smiles.

Mirabella stood in anxious silence, fidgeting with her skirt and shawl and wig, until Liza reached out and elbowed her sharply in her furry side. Mirabella jumped and landed in a deep curtsy, stuttering out, “Charmed, charmed. Very indebted.”

“Don't be shy,” said the blond one. “Please—come and sit with us.”

“You must be hungry,” said the red-haired one, whose smile was the biggest of them all. “Very hungry.”

“Um—yes. As a matter of fact, we are.” As if to prove it, Liza's stomach gave a tremendous gurgle.

“Please,” said the brown-haired one. “Eat with us. My sister was just about to play a song.”

“I'll play,” the red-haired one said. Her teeth were large and square and white. “And you eat.”

“Eat, eat,” the other three murmured.

“Thank you.” Liza could have sobbed in gratitude. She nearly broke into a run crossing the clearing, and she could sense that Mirabella was also having trouble controlling herself. She wanted so badly to sit down, and tear at a turkey leg with her hands, and eat and eat, until she could barely stand.

Mirabella sat down next to the blond woman.

“What a lovely skirt,” the blond woman said, and she reached out and caressed Mirabella's ears. “And what nice, soft fur you have.”

Liza had never known that rats could blush, but Mirabella did then. She turned a dark crimson, and even her whiskers took on a reddish hue.

“Thank you,” the rat muttered and then, deeply embarrassed, picked up a whole wedge of blue cheese and stuffed it unceremoniously into her cheeks so that no one would expect her to speak again.

Liza took a seat next to the red-haired woman, who had started strumming again softly. The music was lovely and reminded Liza of sunshine and endless laughter. She picked up a soft, warm roll and sank her teeth into its crust, and almost cried out with joy when butter dribbled down her cheek.

“You must have traveled very far,” said the black-haired sister.

“Mm-hmm,” Liza mumbled, with her mouth full of apple pie and sweet maple syrup. “Vewy faw.” She was too hungry to be embarrassed about talking with her mouth full.

“Where have you come from?” asked the blond one, as she helped Liza pile her plate with biscuits, bacon, and sticky toffee.

“From Abuff,” Liza said, as she swallowed a biscuit practically whole, washing it down with a swig of chocolate milk from the stone mug the red-haired sister placed in front of her.

Strangely, the more she ate, the more a pit seemed to open inside of her: pain, agony, a terrible, shredding hunger.

She could tell that Mirabella felt the same way. The rat had forgotten all her manners. She was perched on her hind legs on the bench, bent over the enormous turkey, working away with her two sharp teeth, clawing frantically at its flesh. Bits of browned skin dangled from the rat's fingernails. Liza began to feel nauseous, though it did nothing to quell the hunger.

“Eat, eat,” the sisters chanted softly, encouragingly. The music continued to play: The tambourine beat out a soft rhythm, and the notes of the guitar seemed to wrap Liza's mind in a soft, enveloping cloud, making other thoughts difficult. She could feel the music, stretching inside her, like long, soft fingers; the perfume of the food and the flowers made her feel very sleepy. She and the rat had been on their way somewhere, she was sure of it.... There was something she was supposed to do … someone she was looking for …

She frowned. The memory was just out of reach, an irritating twinge among all that soft loveliness of the music. It would be better, far better, to stay here and eat, to put all other ideas out of her mind. She would eat and eat; she could eat forever here, and never be full.

She reached for a piece of fried chicken and tore at a leg with her teeth. Surprisingly, the chicken and the toffee tasted quite good together. She would have to remember to tell Patrick.

Patrick
. The name sent a much-needed jolt through Liza's body. Of course! She was on her way to find the spindlers. She was on her way to rescue Patrick.

Wait
, Liza tried to say, but the word wouldn't rise up from the thick fog in her brain. She reached out to pour herself a glass of water and was surprised to see that her arm seemed to be wobbly, like a mirage on the horizon fading in and out. Her eyes felt heavy. She felt her arm drop to her side.

“Sleep, sleep,” the sisters chanted.

No
, Liza tried to say.

Across from her, Mirabella was asleep, drooling, snout-down in a pile of creamy mashed potatoes. Liza fought the fog, and the sensation of heaviness all through her. She fought her way out of the music; it was like swimming upward through a thick, murky pond. She gathered her strength and pushed forcefully away from the table, stumbling to her feet. In the process she knocked over one of the enormous flowers around the table.