Hawthorn (2 page)

“Shadow crows!” I screamed, yanking Helen to her feet. “Run!”

I pushed Helen through a narrow opening in the brush into an open clearing—a perfect circle surrounded by bushes covered in white flowers and black crows. I dimly had the thought that the woods had been leading us here all along, mocking our desire to stop time. There was no way to stop time. If you didn't take the future in hand it took you and yanked you where it wanted you to go.

Then Helen and I were falling down a long dark tunnel into the vast unknown.

I'M NOT SURE
how long I was unconscious. When I came to, the light trickling down the walls of the cavern where we had fallen was the dark gold of late afternoon. It turned the mud walls the color of maple syrup, puddling over the twisted roots. I stared at them as if making sense of their pattern could make my brain stop ringing—

The bass bell that signaled danger was ringing in my head. I lurched up, which made the ringing worse, and looked around me for the danger. Had the trow followed us down here? No—the trow was dead. But what had come out of him wasn't. A black crow perched on the rim of the cavern, silhouetted against the syrupy gold light, cocking its head curiously at me. It cawed and another one joined him.

Shadow crows
. They had come out of the trow. I had pushed Helen away—

Helen
. I tore my eyes away from the crow and searched for Helen. She was lying behind me, facedown in the mud. I cried out at the sight and stumbled toward her, calling her name. When I grabbed her arm it felt cold.
That's only because she's been lying on the cold ground for a long time,
I told myself.
I rolled her over. I could barely make out her face in the murky light—because it was covered by mud, as was her white shirtwaist. Helen would be furious. She'd bought this shirtwaist at Miss Janeway's just before coming to school, spending extra for the fine French lawn and the pearl buttons. She was going to be terribly out of sorts—I gave her another good shake—the moment she woke up.

She moaned.

A feeling of relief washed over me. Helen's eyes struggled open, their whites startling in her muddy face.

“Ava, whyever are you covered with mud? And why are you crying? What's happened?”

“We fell down a hole!” I exclaimed, streaking more mud over my face when I tried to wipe away my tears.

“You needn't make it sound such an accomplishment . . . ow!” Helen moaned as she sat up, rubbing her elbow. “You're not Alice and this hole doesn't look a bit like Wonderland. And what do you think all those crows are looking at?”

I swiveled around. The rim of the cavern was lined with crows now, their black eyes fixed on Helen and me. “They're shadow crows,” I said as quietly and calmly as I could. “They came out of the trow—that's why it was acting so strangely. It was possessed by the
tenebrae
.”

“All those crows couldn't have come out of the trow,” Helen said. “They must have been waiting . . .” Helen looked around the muddy pit. “Like they wanted something in here. What do you think they want?”

To rip our eyes out and burrow inside us until we're their
creatures
, I thought. But to Helen I said, “You're right. There must be something here they want. We should tell Gillie . . .”

“Yes, we'll give him a thorough report typed up in triplicate . . . but, um, Ava,
how exactly
will we get past those crows?”

“Remember how Miss Sharp mesmerized them with her dagger? I think I can do that.” As I reached for my dagger the crows cocked their heads at the same angle at the same moment as if they were ruled by the same mind. They were controlled by Judicus van Drood, the Shadow Master. He had sent them . . . but what could he want in this muddy pit? Well, we'd have to worry about that later. My hand closed on the sheath—and found it empty.

“I don't have my dagger! It must have fallen.”

“Well, I have mine, but even if we mesmerize the crows, we'd have to keep them mesmerized while climbing out of this pit. And I'm not sure I
can
climb on account of my ankle, which I believe I've sprained.”

I looked back at Helen, who had lifted her skirt to inspect her ankle. It was swollen and was turning as blue as the trow's face had been.

“Helen, that looks painful.”

“Yes, it is rather. I will mesmerize the crows while you climb out and go for help. You can bring our friends back to get me out—”

“I'm not leaving you alone here,” I said, looking around at the muddy pit. Even with the last of the golden light shining into it, it was a gloomy place. Once the light was gone it would be terrifying. Those tangled roots would assume monstrous
shapes—leering faces, looming monsters—even now I could see pictures in them.

“Helen,” I said, “do you notice anything about the walls?”

“I notice that they're very steep. Now help me remember Miss Sharp's spell.” She drew out her own dagger. A ray of sunlight glanced off one of the gems encrusted in its hilt and sent a beam of ruby light arcing through the gloom. The crows rustled their feathers above us but I didn't look up. Where the light struck the wall a pattern had emerged.

“Keep the dagger just like that,” I told Helen as I got up and moved stealthily toward the wall. The crows cawed over my head and I felt the skin on the back of my neck prickle as I imagined the bite of their sharp beaks. I concentrated on the bit of wall I could see through the roots—it was a wall, a proper stone wall with carvings on it. I moved the tangled roots away, cringing as a centipede slithered over my hand, and stared at the carvings of tiny winged creatures, their wings encrusted with jewels.
Lampsprites
. Moving more roots away, I saw other figures—tall graceful men and women in long medieval robes, falcons perched on their arms and graceful deer walking beside them like tame greyhounds. Some of them carried jeweled coffers.

“It looks like some kind of ceremonial procession,” I said to Helen.

“I'm sure it's very interesting, but I think you should start climbing. I've got the birds under control.”

I looked up and saw that the crows were following the movement of Helen's arm. She was sweeping the dagger in the air, murmuring Latin words. The runes carved on her
dagger floated free and hovered in the air like dragonflies. Then they darted across the cavern and landed on the wall, burning straight through the roots. I could see the pattern now. The lords and ladies in the procession were carrying their coffers toward three enormous urns, big as houses. The chests held by the figures closest to the urns were opened. Dark shapes flew out of them—some abstract, others shaped like crows, snakes, bats, and wolves. The tiny lampsprites herded the shadowy shapes into the urns. They were lowering the lids onto the last of the urns.

“Helen!” I cried. “The pictures tell the story of the three vessels. Raven told me about it.” As I said his name I felt a pang at the memory of our quarrel but I pushed it away. “Ages ago the fairies drew out all the bad qualities of mankind and stored them in three urns. But then humans missed some of those qualities and found one of the urns and broke it. The shadows flew out and possessed the first shadow master. He found another of the vessels and broke into it.” I glanced at the middle vessel and saw that the runes around it were glowing. I put my hand on the wall and felt that it was trembling.

“That's a fascinating story, Ava, but I'm not sure how much longer I can hold the crows at bay.”

The entire wall was shaking now. The outline of the middle urn was glowing like a rim of fire. The runes from Helen's dagger had unlocked something. From deep in the earth came a rumbling. The middle urn was moving, swinging inward like a giant door. Above me I heard the crows let out a raucous caw as they took flight, diving down into the pit. Helen screamed as one landed on her. I reached behind me and grabbed her hand
and pulled her through the open doorway. I turned back to see if the crows were following us, but they had all flown back to the opposite rim of the pit, squawking and beating their wings.

“Come on,” I said, “they're afraid to follow us.”

“Do you think it's really a good idea to go someplace that scares shadow crows?” Helen asked.

“The crows must want something here if they've surrounded the place even though they're afraid of it. I think we'd better find out what it is. Look, we're in a tunnel—and there are lanterns hanging on the wall.” I removed an oddly shaped glass lantern from a hook on the wall. It was shaped like a jam jar with a wire around the rim affixed to a handle with some kind of wick inside. I shook the jar and the “wick” unfurled its wings, stretched its arms, and yawned.

“It's a lampsprite!” Helen cried. “In a lamp! How droll!”

The lampsprite came flying out of the open jar, brushing its wings against Helen's and my faces.
Not so droll waiting years and years in a jar!
I heard its voice transmitted into my head through the powder in its wings. She flew toward the pit and then backpedaled on the threshold when she saw the crows.

Shadow-things!
She hissed.
Come, come quick, we must go tell the guardian.
She flitted past us and flew deeper into the tunnel.

“Is this guardian down there?” Helen asked, looking nervously into the dark tunnel.

Yes, yes, yes, the guardian is always here, since before and forever. He guards against the shadow-things but he won't harm two humanlings. . . .
She flitted back to us and brushed her wings over our faces again.
Humanling and . . .
She cocked her head at me.
Half-bloodling.

“Hey!” Helen said. “Don't call her that!”

“That's what I am,” I answered. “Half-human, half-Darkling. Will this guardian of yours have a problem with that?”

Oh no,
the lampsprite chirped.
He's been waiting for you.

We followed the lampsprite—whose name was an unpronounceable word that Helen decided sounded like Primrose—deep into the tunnel, her light illumining the walls in fitful bursts.

“Are you quite sure there's a back door to this place?” Helen asked. “I don't know how much longer I can walk on this ankle. It seems like we've been walking forever.” She peered down at her wristwatch and shook it. “My watch seems to have stopped. It must have broken when I fell.”

I withdrew my automaton repeater from my pocket and opened it. Two figures—a winged man and woman—hammered out a frantic little melody and the watch hands spun backward. “Primrose,” I began warily, “these tunnels . . . are they . . .”

“At an end!” Helen cried pointing toward a light at the end of the passage. “Finally!”

I followed Helen into a large domed chamber. “Oh! I thought we'd come out, but it's only a room of sorts.” She was turning around in a circle, looking at the walls, which were so grown over with thick, twisted roots that we seemed to be in a basket. In fact, the roots seemed to be moving, creaking like a wicker laundry basket when you pick it up. I looked around for a door but couldn't find one. I turned around to point this out
to Primrose, but my eye was caught by a long pale root with a strange pattern in its woody fiber—almost like a face. I could make out two eyes—large pale celery-colored eyes that blinked at me.

I started back and bumped into Helen, who clutched me with one hand while pointing her dagger with the other. “What
is
it?” Helen asked, her voice trembling.

Primrose flitted over to the root and brushed her wings against its face. At the touch of her powder the root creature yawned and stretched its long limbs, which hung in the thatch like a scarecrow hanging on a pole.

“Are you sure you want to wake it up?” Helen asked, watching the root man warily.

The guardian never sleeps,
Primrose chirped,
only waits.

The guardian must have been waiting a long time. He was so knitted into the fabric of the roots that he was having trouble pulling his arms free. I wondered if we ought to run, but then, where could we run to? The only way out led to the pit with the shadow crows. I decided we might as well help him.

“Can we give you a hand?” I asked, holding out my hand to the creature.

He blinked his celery-colored eyes at me, and his face—which looked rather like a rutabaga—crinkled into a smile. “Thank you,” he said in a creaking voice. He laid his long thin hand in mine. It was cool and limp, like wilted carrots, but then he squeezed with surprising strength and pulled himself free of the roots in one splintering burst. Dirt and moss fell to the ground along with a dozen centipedes and worms. When he
unfolded himself to his full height he towered over Helen and me. He brushed dirt from his long cloak, revealing it to be more green than brown and embroidered with runes and sigils. The symbols resembled the ones in the carvings.