by Matthew Cody
Jez ran forward and, not knowing what else to do, scooped up the knife. It was heavy and the handle was greasy and she didn’t want to think about what that knife had been used for over the years. She closed one eye, aimed and, using all of her weight, brought it down on Macheath’s foot. There was a thump as the blade sank through the man’s booted foot and into the wooden planked floor beneath.
Macheath paused for just a moment, looked at his foot now firmly staked to the deck and then with a roar grabbed Jezebel by the collar. One in each hand, he lifted the two kids to his mouth as if he were about to binge from two glasses. His roar changed to a delighted cackle.
The first punch to his face seemed to surprise him but did little more than that. The second, which followed swiftly after the first, knocked him back a step. The third broke his hold on the two kids and sent him to the floor. The trog was on top of him, hammering down with all three fists now into Macheath’s face and not letting up for an instant.
Tommy stared, wide-eyed, but Jez kept her head. “C’mon,” she said, grabbing Tommy’s shoulder. “Let’s get out of here!”
They scurried up the ladder, Tommy in the lead. When she got to the top she yelled, “C’mon!” but the trog was already a step ahead of her. Macheath had gotten his arms up in front of his face the way a boxer would, and the trog’s beating was having less of an effect. The trog gave him a final smack and then leapt up onto the ladder, his apelike limbs scaling the distance in no time.
There was a sturdy-looking hatchway up top, and as Jez flipped it closed she caught a glimpse of Macheath climbing the ladder after them. Their eyes met, and his fury was palpable as he spit a single, broken tooth out of his bloody mouth.
She shut the hatch and drew the thick bar lock closed. The wooden plank shuddered but it held as Macheath beat on it from below, cursing all the while.
Tommy smiled at the trog. “That’s two we owe you!”
“Tobby Erber,” he replied.
“Where to now?” Jez asked.
“We need to head for the hawsehole. We’ll climb the anchor chain down.”
A deep rumble started somewhere in the bowels of the ship. A quiver ran through the walls, the floor. Jez even felt it through her sneakers. Something was happening.
“That sounds like an engine,” she said.
“They’re setting sail! We’ve got to go, quick!”
Again the trog led the way, and they ran the length of the lower deck. Once they had to dodge a group of Grave Walkers who were coming down the corridor, but the death worshipers were apparently too busy with their duties to notice the three of them hidden in the shadows.
They reached the hawsehole and found it, thankfully, unattended.
“C’mon,” said Tommy. “They’ll be here to raise anchor any minute.”
Jez went first, wrapping her legs around the thick chain links and not daring to look down. She didn’t want to think about the drop or the forest of petrified stone below.
“So, how do you know so much about ships?” she asked, trying to occupy her mind.
“Oh, I’ve had some experience with boats over the last few years,” Tommy said as he climbed down after her. “Remind me to show you mine sometime.”
The trog came last, easily navigating the chain.
The three of them were about halfway down when they heard the clink of metal grinding against metal as the chain began to move. Jez risked a look below and saw the giant black anchor being hefted up through the trees. They were still a dizzying height above and a fall from there would surely be the end of them.
“Go faster!” Tommy yelled.
And they did, but they continued to lose ground as the chain was retracted back into the ship’s hull. Jez glanced up top and saw that a kind of shimmer had appeared all around them, like she was looking at the ship from the bottom of a swimming pool.
“They’ve started to sail!” said Tommy, seeing it, too. “The ship’s going to jump to a different dimension.”
“Which one?” asked Jez, but Tommy didn’t answer. He didn’t need to; they were both thinking the same thing.
The Gentleman came out of the space in between—the blackness between worlds.
“Go faster!” they both shouted at once. But it was no use; the chain was rising far more quickly than they could descend. They were being hauled back into the Gentleman’s ship.
The trog chattered and grunted at them, and Jez waved him away. “I know! But we’ve only got two hands!”
Then Jez felt something tapping her on the top of her head. She looked up to see Tommy’s shoe.
“Hey!” she said.
But he wasn’t listening. He was pointing to something in the distance. Two shapes were approaching from over the ridge. They soared high above the hills and swooped as they changed course and headed straight for the climbers.
“No way,” said Jez as she got a closer look at the two winged lizards and their trog riders.
Pterodactyls.
Their trog whooped and clicked happily as the two approached, their riders whooping and clicking in return.
The celebrations were quickly drowned out, however, by the ear-piercing roar of grinding machinery. The entire valley echoed with the sound of something building, like an engine being gunned into overdrive. The anchor chain started to vibrate as the last few feet were being hoisted aboard the ship.
The Grave Walkers had wheeled some kind of device to the prow of the ship. It looked like a huge archway surrounding an inky darkness. The valley rang with the Gentleman’s voice as he shouted a command, and the arch lit up like a spotlight, shining an ugly greenish light into the underground sky. Where the foul light fell, there appeared an enormous funnel cloud, like some kind of vortex on its side, twisting and swallowing the light of the molten sun overhead. A storm raged at the center of it.
The Gentleman had created a giant portal in the sky—and it led someplace dark.
The trog was shouting something, gesturing wildly at the approaching fliers. Jez held on tight with one hand while trying to cover her ears with the other—the scream of the ship’s engines was unbearable as they began sailing toward the dark portal. The Grave Walkers above still hadn’t noticed their escape, but it didn’t matter—they were about to be pulled back into the ship on its great anchor chain. There was nothing they could do to stop it.
With his two free hands, the trog reached out and grabbed Jez and Tommy by the arms and, with a powerful tug, peeled them off the chain. Jez’s stomach jumped into her throat as she fell, only to land with a solid thump on the back of one of the circling pterodactyls.
All at once the sound of the engines stopped, replaced by a blinding flash of light. Then, just as thunder follows lightning, the whole of the Hollow World was shaken by a tremendous crack.
One Fourth of July weekend Jez’s father took her to an air show on the Hudson River. She remembered the sonic booms of the jets as they broke the sound barrier overhead. This was more than that—this was the breaking of the reality barrier as the Dead Gentleman’s ship disappeared from the Hollow World altogether.
After a few moments the ringing in Jezebel’s ears quieted, and she opened her eyes to see that she was being held tightly by a trog as they soared through the air. A glance over her shoulder told her that Tommy had landed on a similar mount.
The Charnel House was gone, but the dead valley below was grim evidence of its passing. The pterodactyls flew in lazy circles now while their trog riders cheered in unison.
“Tobby Erber! Tobby Erber!” they were chanting.
Tommy looked down at Jez from his pterodactyl and shouted. “Hey, Jez! You were right, I’m famous!”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
TOMMY
THE HIDDEN CITY, 1901
The Hidden City was quiet again. The towers had fallen, smashed to ruins and dust. The streets still wound the same paths, but the shining cobblestones were now dusty-brown and filthy—in their slaughter the Grave Walkers had turned them int
o gutters of blood. Here and there my boot crunched down upon a chunk of solid-gold rubble, the ruins of once-ornate frescoes and rich statuary. But I didn’t pocket even the tiniest nugget. I may be a thief, but I’m no grave robber.
The Captain had told me never to return to this forsaken place, but months had passed since the old man’s death and I was at a loss as to what to do next. Scott had given me a tall order before he’d died, to find out the Gentleman’s plans and stop him. But short of asking the rotted monster himself, I couldn’t think of a plan to proceed. I needed a bit of wisdom. Or maybe I just needed something to do.
So here I was, returning to the one place in all the universe I never wanted to see again. I was going on a fool’s hope that the High Father had managed to avoid capture, but a fool’s hope seemed to be the only hope I ever had.
At least the Grave Walkers had all vanished. The walkways that had once swarmed with the cultists were now abandoned. The Explorers were dead, the city was empty, the Academy was in ruins and I had to find one wrinkled old monk in all that mess who, more likely than not, was a corpse now himself.
But sometimes fate smiles on a fool, because I’d not taken two steps when I heard a voice behind me.
“Such a tenacious little flea. It’s a wonder you haven’t been caught yet in life’s scratching.”
A short, prunish old man in filthy white robes stood in the middle of the street, looking for all the world as if he’d been expecting company. And perhaps he was—his long white tufts of ear hair were filthy with dirt and dried blood. The little man looked like he’d taken quite a beating. I began to wonder if the Hidden City was truly abandoned, after all.
A long cow’s tail flicked back and forth at his feet. The High Father.
“You have no idea how glad I am to see you,” I said. “Come on, we’re getting out of here.”
The High Father smiled at me with an infuriating know-it-all grin, which instantly reminded me of how much adults annoyed me. Captain Scott had been the occasional exception.
“Little flea, little flea,” said the High Father. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Look, I’m sorry to tell you this, but in case you haven’t noticed, the Academy’s a ruin. The fight’s over here and I need your help!”
“Yes, yes. The fight is over and we have lost. And the dead that remain now serve the Gentleman. When the sun goes down, they hunt for me, still. It is our nightly ritual of predator and prey. I know this, and yet I will not go.”
I took a step forward while trying to keep my voice level. “Look, the Captain’s dead! He died trying to rescue you once and I’m not going to let his last act be in vain! You’re coming with me!”
“And what are you going to do? Beat me until I agree to go with you?”
The word “yes” was on the tip of my tongue, but I bit it back.
The High Father shook his head sadly. “I regret the harm that has come to your friends, and I honor the spirit of Captain Scott, but look around you. My brothers all passed on to enlightenment long ago. The Explorers are dead. I am all that’s left.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“No. You misunderstand me. I am not sad for myself. I can leave this place at any time. I know the portals better than any Explorer. But all things must have their end. If not today at the hands of the Gentleman, then perhaps tomorrow or the next day. Or I might live for a hundred years more. What is certain is that it will end. This does not sadden me.”
The old man shook his head. “Tommy, I am sad for you.”
I took a deep breath and started to reach for him. “I don’t have time to sit and listen to your little riddles and proverbs; you are coming with me.”
“I have seen your future, Tommy, and I know how you are going to die.”
I froze.
“You are right, we don’t have time for riddles,” said the High Father. “Am I being plain enough now?”
For the first time, he wasn’t smiling.
“Time is just another dimension, Tommy. Remember that, always.”
The High Father reached into his robe and pulled out a strange small box of wood and brass. At its heart glowed a soft light, and fuzzy pictures swirled about its surface—like a shadow puppet show.
“This is the Cycloidotrope,” he said. “And it should not fall into the Gentleman’s hands, regardless of what happens to me. He has mastered space, but he has no power over time.”
He held it out. “You came here for help in your mission to stop the Gentleman. But this is all I can offer you. If you focus on something, moments of its future will appear in the glass, or scenes from its past. If the need is great enough, you may even be able to communicate across the great gulfs of the time stream.”
I took the Cycloidotrope in my hands. It was surprisingly warm.
“Know this, though—the future is not set,” said the High Father. “Some things you see will be indistinct, changeable. Look for yourself. Focus on your future and see what the Cycloidotrope will tell you.”
I didn’t believe a word of it, and yet the minute I looked into the cube, the images began to swirl and take shape. I couldn’t help but wonder about my future, about what he had said about my death.…
First, the image that appeared in the cube was from my recent past. I was standing next to the Captain’s empty bed. Bernard was there, too, and he was crying. The picture shifted and changed and now I was seeing a girl. She was my age and she was shouting something but I couldn’t make out the words. We were in a bedroom, a girl’s bedroom judging by the furnishings, but the style was very strange. Next the girl was tumbling into a dark, yawning portal and I saw myself reaching out to catch her. The image shifted again and I saw a new scene—the same girl on the deck of a black ship with the wind whipping at her hair. Flames glowed and smoke billowed everywhere. She was holding a boy, cradling him in her arms. She was crying, and tears fell on the boy’s pale, lifeless face. My face. The scene shifted for a last time, and when it came back into focus all was death. The lands were barren; dead trees and empty cities covered the Earth. The sun in the sky died out, then the stars winked out one by one until all was dark. Just a hollow, empty blackness.
“The less certain the outcome, the more indistinct the picture,” said the High Father. “But you have just witnessed the likeliest future. In it, you will save the life of this girl you will meet, you will catch her before she falls into darkness and you will die as a result. First you, then the world.”
I looked up; the cube had gone back to its innocent white glow. But the images of the dead Earth had been crystal clear.
“Who is she?”
“You will meet her soon enough,” answered the High Father. “She is vital to the future, to your future. Your destinies are intertwined.”
“This thing can see into the future. Can I use it to go there? Can I travel in time and stop it from happening?”
“No one has ever tried. The Cycloidotrope was designed to be a window only. You may gaze out through the window. You may even be able to open it and speak to those on the other side. But if you try to jump through you will most likely be splintered into nothingness. The forces of time are unforgiving. The only way to change the future is to live through it.”
“So there’s no way? Time travel is impossible.”
The High Father cocked his head. “I didn’t say that. There are no certainties in this universe, Tommy. Merely bad odds. Very bad odds.”
“Can you do it?” I asked. “Can you travel through time?”
“Yes,” the High Father answered, after a moment. “But I won’t.”
My blood started to rise. “Look, you said you weren’t going to play games!”
The High Father held up his hand. “I am not playing a game. Time is not meant to be abused, and just because a person can do something does not mean that he should.”
I cursed as I shoved the Cycloidotrope into my belt pouch. “Live through it, huh? So I’m just supposed to wait until this awfu
l future comes to pass?”
The High Father shrugged. “In the Cycloidotrope you weren’t much older than you are now. I doubt you’ll have to wait very long.”
“What if I change it? When I meet this girl, what if I let her die? Can I save the Earth then?”
The High Father smiled again. “The scene was dim at that precise moment. Foggy. That means that you could, conceivably, act differently. You let the girl die and then—who knows? At that point, as they say, anything is possible.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
JEZEBEL
THE HOLLOW WORLD, 1902
The trogs flew them to an aboveground camp, a series of small watchtowers on the edge of their subterranean kingdom. Here the trogs corralled mounts like the flying pterodactyls and the poor stegosaurus that had saved Jez’s life. As they approached the camp Jez saw her trog gazing at the paddock of dinosaurs. Several trogs were feeding them large mouthfuls of vegetation, while others patted them down and scrubbed their fins clean. The care with which these creatures treated their animals only confirmed what Jez had suspected for some time: the stegosaurus had been more than just a beast of burden—the trog was grieving for a friend.
The reception they received here was certainly nicer than what she’d come to expect. They weren’t tied up and jostled around in nets, for one thing. These trogs treated Tommy and Jez more like honored guests. Once on the ground, Jezebel and Tommy were surrounded by a throng of curious onlookers. Jez even spotted a few infants clinging tightly to their mothers, eyes wide and curious, as they were carried about with that strange arm-walk—two long, powerful arms acting as “feet” while the third held the infant close. It seemed that the trogs’ stubby legs weren’t good for much more than standing on.
Jez and Tommy were offered food and the opportunity to catch a few much-needed hours of sleep. The meal was a mash of various mushrooms and some kind of grilled meat, which they gratefully accepted. After several days of little to eat, Jezebel didn’t care if she was chewing on lizard or bug—nothing had ever tasted so good.