I’m not alone this time. Jeb carries the stolen sword, and we race down the path toward the Caterpillar’s lair. The thorns that once snarled and ripped my pinafore elongate into leafy eels. The serpentine strands wrap around our legs and carry us upside down to the chessboard. Our bodies freeze into game pieces. A hand appears, wearing a black glove, and moves us from square to square. It picks me up to claim checkmate, but Jeb comes alive, slashing at the fingers with the sword to free me. The bloody digits fall one by one and morph into caterpillars. Jeb and I race back to the path. The mushroom waits in the center, cloaked in a web. The caterpillars beat us there. They tunnel into the cocoon, filling it until it writhes—a living, breathing thing. A razor-sharp black blade slices from within the webbed casing. Whatever’s inside is coming out.
I awaken, startled, and blink against the sun’s brightness. My hands are clenched into fists. What woke me up? I was so close to unveiling the face in the cocoon—the one I’ve been waiting years to see.
Yawning, I focus on the here and now. Sometime in the night, I must’ve turned toward Jeb in the rowboat, and he pulled me against himself, tucking me under his chin. All I see now is a close-up of his tank. He’s still asleep. His heavy breath rustles my hair, slow and rhythmic. His arms clutch my waist.
Yesterday comes back to me in pieces: the rabbit hole, the mutant flower garden, the ocean of tears.
I snuggle into his neck, fingers curled within the sleeves of the tuxedo jacket, determined not to wake him so I can pretend things are simple and perfect for just a few minutes longer.
The boat rocks and I realize that’s what woke me. Not a gentle, riding-on-a-current movement. More a something-heavy-sloughedover-the-edge-and-is-watching-us movement . . .
I freeze—as rigid as the wood beneath us.
Guttural snuffles fill the air, like those of an asthmatic bulldog. The warmth of sun on my shoulders turns chilly as a shadow falls across us. My heart does a somersault. Before I can belt out a scream, Jeb snaps into action, rolling us toward the bow and jerking us to our feet. He was awake the whole time.
“No way,” he says.
I wobble with the boat’s motion, holding on to Jeb’s waistband with one hand and the seat behind me with the other. I peer around him.
At first glance, our intruder looks like a walrus. He has two giant tusks with images of snakes and angry flames carved along the ivory. But beneath rolls of blubber, his lower half is a tangle of slithering octopus tentacles, covered in suction cups. It’s as if someone snapped two different creatures together, creating an octo-walrus. He must weigh over five hundred pounds, and his body occupies most of the boat.
As huge as he is, and with his tentacles hanging half in and out, the boat should be capsized. Jeb and I should’ve been flung like stones from a slingshot as soon as he slithered aboard. Instead, the hull is level and drifting along the shining water as if the creature weighs no more than we do. Wonder what Isaac Newton would have to say about the jacked-up physical laws here?
Jeb nudges me to sit behind him but keeps standing, every muscle in his body tense and ready to snap. “What are you?”
Our uninvited guest scrapes oozing goop from his eyes with the human fingers on the ends of his flippers. “Fair question, elfin knight. I’m an octobenus. Now, let me guess your next question. What do I want? For that, there’s a simple answer. I want to stop the endless suffering in my belly.” Whiskers—long and blond against a cinnamon brown hide—droop under his nostril holes. His tentacles slap the ocean, spritzing us with water.
From the chain at his neck, he opens a locket the size of a cigar box and digs something out. He lays a clam in his palm, carefully holding its shell pinched shut. “Good morning, little sea cabbage,” he taunts it. “Still worried about your family?”
The clam tries to open its mouth in answer. The octobenus repositions his hold to keep it quiet. “Tell you what. If you can stanch my hunger, I’ll set all of them free. Willing to give it a try?”
Although the clam can’t open its mouth wide enough to talk, a pinkish, hatchet-shaped muscle slinks out from the crack—like a malformed foot or arm—patting the enormous creature’s cheek in a final bid for life.
A whimper bursts from my throat. Jeb reaches behind his back and opens his hand. I lace our fingers together.
In a rush of blubber and slobber, the octobenus forces the shell open, seals his mouth around it, and suctions out the contents with a terrible sucking sound. The clam’s excruciating scream echoes in my head, then fades to dreadful silence. I grasp Jeb tighter, trying not to gag.
“Nope. Still hungry. Suppose I’ll be eating your children next.” Our unwelcome visitor laughs, an ugly, grinding sound, then tosses the empty shell overboard. He swats it with a tentacle so it sinks, and the motion makes the boat rock.
Jeb’s fingers cinch around my wrist as he struggles to stay balanced.
“You must be swift with slimy prey like that,” the octobenus says. “They’re tricksters . . . always trying to capture you in their Deathspeak. Can you imagine, being a slave to a clam’s final wish?” He laughs again.
Deathspeak
. . . that phrase from the back of Alice’s psych evaluation. I peer around Jeb as the walrusy creature wedges a monocle over his watery left eye.
“Now,” he says, “if you would be so kind as to step aside, Elf, I might get a better look at your ward.”
Jeb’s stance tightens. “Not a chance.”
The octo-freak drops his monocle. “Those bumbling flowers think that your blood has the power to buy me my fill of bivalves!” His shout rattles over us—through us—carrying the scent of fish and death. “But it’s never been an issue of
buying
them. I’m a hunter. I must capture them. It is my nature. Clams are such crafty creatures, always using their little arms to move about and escape under their beds on the ocean floor. If only it weren’t so dark down there, and with my eyes gone so bad . . . I’m lucky to capture a half dozen before they all hide.” He wipes his mouth with a thick flipper. “But the Wise One owns a magic flute that calls my prey from their hiding places. And now I have a way to barter for it.”
“By offering my blood in exchange,” Jeb guesses.
This can’t be happening. I don’t care how many fights he’s been in at home. Even with a Swiss Army knife, he doesn’t stand a chance against a five-hundred-pound sea monster.
“He’s not a jeweled elf!” I shout from behind Jeb. “He’s human. Look at his ears.”
Jeb squeezes my fingers—a plea to keep quiet.
“Doesn’t matter either way. Jewels and riches mean nothing to the Wise One. But you, little cabbage, he’s desperate for your help. Oh, yes. He’s been waiting years for you to find your way here.”
The statement churns in my head. The flowers said the
Wise One
is the Caterpillar. So . . . he’s been waiting for me? Maybe the Caterpillar sent the moth and my dark guide to find me and bring me here.
Our captor’s tentacles writhe along the boat’s edges like giant pythons, and the wood creaks. “With you as hostage, I can barter for the flute. He will lay it at my feet for your safe deliverance.”
“You’ll have to kill me to get to her,” Jeb says.
I jerk on his wrist but he ignores me.
The octobenus kneads his flipper-hands. “Ah, a loyal friend. I had one of those, many years ago. He was an artisan. He carved my tusks and crafted a beautiful trunk to hold my reserve of clams. Then I learned he was pilfering my supply. So one night as he slept, I captured him”—the tentacles curl around the boat in demonstration—“and locked him in the trunk with the empty shells. I cast the lot into the ocean to muffle his screams. His bones are fish bait now.”
I bite my lip to keep from screaming.
Our captor laughs. “Dismal, isn’t it? You see, if I would be so callous with a friend, what’s to stop me from killing you? Nothing gets in the way of my belly’s needs.” He runs the thin, pointed end of a tentacle down to the tips of his slobbery tusks. “I
will
have the girl!”
He thrashes his tentacles and snags Jeb around the waist.
“No!” My arms dart out to hold him. The tentacles rip him away and lift him into the air.
“There’s land . . . to your left!” Jeb shouts as he wrestles with the creature, barely missing the deadly tip of a tusk. The struggle jostles the boat.
Choking on more screams, I hold on to the seat to keep from falling. Jeb’s right. There’s something on the horizon. It glitters like black sequins. It could be the island the flowers told us about.
“Go!” Jeb yells. “I’ll hold him off as long as I can!”
He grabs the chain around the monster’s neck. With quick thrusts, he wraps up some tentacles so I can make my escape. One of the tusks slices through the knee of his pants. The sound of tearing fabric reminds me of the clam’s horrible death. I can’t let that happen to Jeb.
We’ll never escape the octobenus in the water. How do we fight back? He has no obvious weakness . . . only a raging appetite.
“Wait!” I drop to my knees in front of him, acting on a sudden idea, hoping it works. “Please, free my friend, and I’ll help you willingly.”
“Al!” Jeb shouts.
“Give your word, nether-girl,” our captor says, his face a blubbery sneer. “You know the rules . . . an oath from our kind cannot be broken, else your power will be lost.”
I don’t know why he’s calling me nether-girl, but I’m willing to use it to my advantage. “I promise to help you.”
“Not good enough,” he says, winding Jeb’s ribs tighter in his tentacles until Jeb groans. “Do it properly. Cover your heart . . . swear on your life-magic. And be very specific.”
I hold my gaze on Jeb’s bluing lips and slap my shaking palm to my chest. “I swear on my life-magic to help tame your appetite.”
With a snarling turn of whiskers, he unwinds his tentacles and releases Jeb so he flops upright into the hull.
I throw my arms around Jeb’s slimy clothes. He keeps me balanced in the boat as we stand together. He’s coughing so hard, I can hardly hear his voice. “You should’ve . . . bailed.”
“No,” I whisper. “We stick together, remember?” Then I turn to our captor. “Mr. Octobenus, I know how to fill your belly. We can give cake to your clams.”
Jeb frowns at me, finally catching his breath.
The creature eases back to his seat on a nest of tentacles, panting and snuffling from the exertion of the fight. “Do you mean you’re offering me some clam cake?”
“No. The cake is
for
the clams,” I answer. “To stretch your supply until we get you the flute. We have just the thing to grow your clams to the size of dinner plates.” I turn my face to Jeb and mouth the words
Eater becoming the eaten.
His face lights with understanding. He drags the backpack toward us. It’s incredible how composed he is after almost getting impaled, crushed, and devoured.
The mutant walrus watches, curious.
Jeb opens the bandana to expose the cake with the words
Eat Me
spelled in raisins.
The octobenus whoops. “An amplifying pastry! Wherever did you find such a prize? I’ve never personally seen one work. They were outlawed after the Alice incident. No matter, no matter . . .” He opens the box on the chain again. The newest clam wrestles against him furiously.
“Give it here,” the octobenus says. “If this fails, I gore out your mortal friend’s entrails and feed them to the fishes.” Drool seeps down his tusks and fills the carved images in slow, glistening slathers.
“Oh, it’ll work.” Jeb slides the cake across the hull. “I’d stake my life on it.”
“You just did.” The mutant walrus grunts as he bends to pick it up. Breaking off a crumb, he prepares to slide it into the crack of the clam’s shell.
“You’ll need to give it more than that,” Jeb says, inching us toward the edge of the boat, backpack in hand. “As much as you can stuff into its mouth.”
“Yes, yes. Just think of it! Clams as big as dinner plates . . .” Without looking up, he chuckles and breaks off a larger piece. Then, forcing the shell open, he shoves the cake inside and snaps it closed again.
In a matter of seconds, the clam starts to shake along with the boat.
“Now!” Jeb dives overboard with my hand in his. A slap of tentacles grazes my legs, but then the warm water folds over us, and we sink. Jeb dog-paddles in front of me, his hair twirling like sea grass in the blue depths. He tugs on my wrist. I kick upward, my boots and clothes heavy and awkward in the water.
We surface and suck in deep breaths, swimming in place long enough to see what’s happening in the boat. The clam stretches from the size of a makeup compact to that of a Dumpster.
In a strangely graceful display of blubber, fins, and tentacles, the octobenus realizes his misstep and tries to slide overboard. Too late. The giant shell opens, and a hatchet-shaped appendage springs out—as big and powerful as an anaconda. The muscle wraps around the octobenus and draws him into its mouth, slurping up tentacles like giant spaghetti noodles before slamming shut.
The boat buckles and cracks. In moments, the clam sinks into the ocean, leaving only foam and floating debris behind. Waves ripple around the wreckage, an eerily serene ending to such a violent scene.
Jeb holds my wrist and the backpack with one hand while using his other arm in a one-sided breast stroke to propel us toward the black beach.
Something pulls me downward.
I pump my legs until my calves cramp, trying to stay afloat. It’s no use. I let go of Jeb, afraid to pull him down with me.
Swept underwater, I search for what’s anchoring me, terrified a sea creature is to blame, yet there’s nothing there. The weight seems to be centered at my waist, but I’m descending too fast to find it. I flail, arms and legs straining against the downward momentum. My lungs shriek for oxygen.
Jeb appears above me. The backpack descends behind him into the dark depths. I snap my legs and hands into action, clawing at the water. Jeb tries to pull me up by gripping under my arms. I jerk away, fighting him. Or maybe I’m fighting myself. Fighting my fear . . .
His expression is resolute as he grabs me. He refuses to give up, and that scares me more than anything. I shake my head.
Save yourself!
my eyes tell him, but he’s too stubborn to listen.
I want to tell him I’m sorry I dragged him into this. Instead, empty bubbles swirl between us.
A hot and heavy ache pushes at my chest. I bat at the water, trying to break through somehow, to make it disappear. My tears mix with Alice’s and every thought blackens at the edges. Jeb’s still pulling on me, but it’s hopeless—we keep sinking.
As I’m about to surrender to unconsciousness, it dawns on me that the weight is coming from my skirt pocket. Numb, I pull out the sponge I picked up at the bottom of the rabbit hole.
What was once the size of a bite of cheese is now as big as a golf ball and growing. It glides down toward the bottom of the ocean, dragging the water with it, creating a whirlpool.
I’m free.
Holding on to each other, Jeb and I surface long enough to fill our lungs before the suction of the funnel captures us. The sponge is the size of a grapefruit now, and I can see the bottom of the ocean far beneath us.
I scream, clutching Jeb for dear life.
My eyes squeeze shut as we slam into something solid.
“Al,” Jeb says, and that’s when I notice I can breathe.
I gasp hungrily for air, open my eyes, and blink away the wetness. The ocean is gone. Flattened sea grass and piles of wet sand surround us. Puddles of water glimmer in places, reflecting the sun. In the distance, I spot our backpack. The island’s black sands tower like a cliff above us—a climb we can’t possibly make.
A few yards away, among the debris, the giant clam sits next to a mossy, decomposing trunk and smacks its bloody lips. I guess the octobenus ended up finding his artisan friend again, after all.
A breeze stirs, scented with fish and salt. I expect the sponge to be the size of a mountain. But there it is, next to my soggy boots, no bigger than a basketball. I pick it up. Hard to fathom that an entire ocean is contained inside.