“Aaaaarvord!” boomed Hen-Hen. “What took you so long? And these are your little friends?” The bees all stirred as one with the smile that cracked the skin on Hen-Hen’s face. They had to reshuffle quickly to avoid being caught in the deep, pocked crevices. Tully watched their shimmering, metallic bodies as they clambered about, and felt a thin wave of sickness again. The fat and furred bees looked as if they had swallowed some of the metal that they bit and swallowed and tempered to make ships, buildings, bridges—some said that Boring Bees were partially made of metal themselves.
Tully thought of such creatures crawling on him—on his face—and felt weak with disgust and fear. The Boring Bees that adorned Hen-Hen didn’t seem to notice him, or any of them for that matter. The creatures had earned their name by their ability to bore perfectly concentric holes in any material—even stone or metal. Or bone, Tully thought.
The three UnderGrouts scuttled into the foyer and appeared in an instant with trays of fruits, cheeses, and beverages. Tully took a Starfruit gratefully, feeling painfully aware of the one he had stolen from the garden. No doubt Hen-Hen could look right down into his bucket and see it. Copernicus launched himself atop a tray and bit directly into a lump of cheese. Aarvord looked pained with embarrassment, but Copernicus took no notice.
“Please, eat!” laughed Hen-Hen, and his laughter echoed throughout the stone home until Tully felt he could trace the contours of every room through the echo. The Boring Bees went into quite a dance at the laughter, as if unsure of the safest spots within Hen-Hen’s massive jowls. Tully wondered how this Frothsome Grout could command creatures that were known to be some of the cleverest and strongest on the planet.
“Please, sir,” Tully began timidly. “We’ve come here to find out what’s going on. Where the Wents have gone.”
Hen-Hen’s laughter ceased abruptly, as if a switch had been thrown.
“Yes. That,” he said. “We’re all worried about that—myself and the Council. Come.”
Hen-Hen led them into a domed chamber, where there were arranged several hassocks and couches, all covered in a rich, velvety fabric. One of the UnderGrouts placed the tray of food, still bearing Copernicus with his jaws clamped around a cheese, on a low marble table. Copernicus came up for air and looked around.
“Nice,” he hissed under his breath, wondering how Hen-Hen had achieved enough wealth to buy this place and the servants that manned it.
“What of the sign?” asked Aarvord. “In the center of the Crossing?”
“You saw it, then?” said Hen-Hen. “Hard to miss. The dark circle has been seen here and there. It is most definitely a warning, a curse, and a threat. It suggests the enemy is closing in and gaining power. Or so they would wish us to think.”
Tully noticed that unlike Aarvord, Hen-Hen had a curious, low way of speaking, with a droning hum that ran like one long note under his words. Of course, it was the bees. Whenever Hen-Hen opened his mouth to speak, they all stirred and buzzed, revealing the shape of his mouth and reverberating the sounds of his voice with each new syllable.
Tully sat on a low velvet ottoman, grateful for the chance to rest, then realized with embarrassment that it was a footstool for the largest seat in the room—into which Hen-Hen now sank. Tully jumped up and moved to a couch, reaching timidly for a piece of cheese. As he did so the bauble around his neck in its coarse casing swung forward. He nervously tucked it back inside his vest. The thinly woven cloth in which it hung was worn with age and soft, and the rough sphere of metal within gleamed through.
“What is in this bag around your neck—a pretty plaything?” asked Hen-Hen thoughtfully. “Where did you get it?”
“A gift from Hindrance,” said Tully. “One of my Wents.”
“And this Hindrance—she is missing now with the others?” asked Hen-Hen.
“Yes. And my other Wents. They are Kellen, Bly, and Sarami.”
“May I see it?”
“I would rather—”
“Who took the Wents? Shrikes? Who is the enemy you speak of?” interrupted Aarvord rudely. Tully was immensely grateful to his friend for changing the subject. He did not care for Hen-Hen’s interest in his necklace.
At Aarvord’s comment Hen-Hen made a snorting sound of derision and several bees flew off his chin, only to alight once more. Shrikes were the one enemy they all feared. It was said that a Shrike was capable of ruining one’s dreams with cruel, chattering messages, whispered while the dreamer slept. They thrived on the misery of others, and their great power lay in their ability to taunt others into near-madness.
“Not Shrikes,” said Hen-Hen. “Nor Scratchlings—the brood of Demimonde Hopgood—”
“Blast her foul claws and rot her eggs,” muttered Tully automatically, who had been taught this curse from childhood. Scratchlings were Dualings, and foul egg layers—not good, like snakes, but loathsome.
Hen-Hen continued as if he had not heard Tully. “Nor Pufferworts, Nettles, Bonedogs. Not the host of rodents and reptiles and insects that live in every nook and cranny the planet has to offer. Their powers are small, in comparison. No, the ones who make the dark circles are different. They have gone by many names. Only a few can see them directly. You may think you see one, but when you turn to stare it in its face you find there’s nothing there.”
Tully shivered. “Could one be here?” he ventured.
“Not here,” boomed Hen-Hen. “I am one of those who can see beyond the shadow and into the souls of the dead.”
“But what are they?” whispered Copernicus.
“They are the Hundred,” said Hen-Hen, and as he spoke it a cloud of bees rose from his face with a whirring, disconcerted sound and Tully could finally see the entirety of his old, wrinkled jaw. He looked quite naked and sad without his bee-beard. The bees buzzed around fitfully and then, as one, settled back on Hen-Hen’s face.
“Never heard of them,” barked Aarvord, but he seemed ill at ease at the mention of the name.
“They are shadow children,” continued Hen-Hen, as if his cousin had not spoken. “Souls without bodies. They want their forms back—they want life, as they once knew it. When they succeed, we will be able to see them easily, yes. But we will no longer have the power to defeat them. Their machines and might will make our own look pitiful.”
Hen-Hen had a distant, strange glow in his eyes, as if the thought of the Hundred’s powerful machines was of keen interest to him. For a moment, he seemed not to see the group before him, but at something distant outside the large arched windows that bordered the room.
“I don’t understand,” said Tully. “It’s not…well, it’s not scientific. How can creatures without bodies live?”
“You are young, Triling.” said Hen-Hen. “You cannot know much of science. Do you not believe in anything beyond yourself and what you see?”
“I know plenty,” said Tully. He felt Copernicus, who had been on the cheese tray a moment before, switching up his leg in an effort to keep him calm. “And I believe in things beyond me. I may not be a clever Dualing scientist. But I’ve learned from my Wents,” Tully continued heatedly. “They taught me everything I need to know.”
“The Wents,” said Hen-Hen. “They are the heart of the matter, are they not? For the Hundred need them to carry out their plan. Without a gift that only the Wents can give, they will have no way to return.”
“And they have the Wents now?” asked Tully. The blood that had rushed to his cheeks a few moments before seemed to sink into his guts and legs, and turn cold.
“They most surely do,” said Hen-Hen. “The Wents gathered at the Crossing, and a dark cloud came and vanished them all. It was surely the Hundred, come to us from some dark past. It snatched them up out of the air. Nothing was left behind but the dark circle. We must act, before terrible things come to pass.”
“What are the Wents supposed to have that they need?” asked Tully, but Hen-Hen shook his head.
“I don’t know the answer to that,” he replied. “The Wents have many gifts. But
they are private creatures, as you must know, and they do not give up their secrets easily.”
“These things without form,” huffed Aarvord. “We can certainly beat them. I mean, can’t we?”
“How do you fight something you can’t see?” asked Tully, turning to Aarvord.
Copernicus asked: “How many of them are there?”
“There are thousands, perhaps millions,” said Hen-Hen. “It is said that once there were but a small number—the One Hundred chosen children. They were born before the Great Cataclysm, many ages ago. But they grew, and multiplied, and became more terrible. What once may have been one hundred dark souls are now hundreds upon hundreds, growing and gathering. They seek to live again. They are seeking a way back to life, always seeking. Perhaps the Wents have the power to give them what they most desire.”
“What were they before they became these…things? Were they good creatures once?” said Tully very quietly.
Hen-Hen paused. “The Hundred are what was left when the humans destroyed themselves,” he said. “They are ghosts, robbed of life before their time. They are the leftovers of what the humans were, and their power is great. Do not underestimate it.” Hen-Hen’s red eyes glowed so fiercely that Tully could not bear to look at him.
The humans! Tully and the others started, alarmed and confused by this turn in their discussion. Talk of the humans was a common fireside story for little Dualings and Trilings alike. The humans were wonderfully entertaining, for they had once been very smart and had ruled the planet with great storms and big buildings and ships. They were also said to be reasonably evil—if not quite thoroughly evil. But they were firmly gone and dead, so no one was really afraid.
“Humans!” scoffed Copernicus. “Why, they’ve been gone for millions of years. Why should we believe these fairy tales? My own father said—”
“Call it fairy tale if you like,” said Hen-Hen. “But explain, if you will, what disappeared the Wents. The Hundred are now among us—whether you like it or not.” And he spoke with a dire, threatening voice that stilled them all. “There is nothing else in our histories and stories that would give sense to what has passed.”
And Hen-Hen sank into a deep reverie, as if that was all he had to say. After a few uncomfortable moments, Aarvord jumped up from his seat and began to pace the room.
“What can we do?” he shouted. “What does this Council of yours plan?”
Hen-Hen looked up, his eyes rheumy and heavy-lidded. “The Council are not fighters,” he said. “A host of wise old creatures. They are not young and strong, and they are afraid.”
“What good are they, then?” said Aarvord.
“I will take you to them tomorrow,” sighed Hen-Hen. “You can ask them yourself. I think you will find their wisdom to be worth the brawn of youth. But it is late now, and we should all get some sleep. I have rooms prepared for you.”
“We’ll share a room, thanks,” said Tully, who did not like the idea of being cloistered somewhere in the tower, apart from his friends.
“As you wish,” said Hen-Hen, and gestured to the UnderGrouts who stood waiting at attention in the shadows. They stepped over to the base of a large spiral staircase and waited. Tully rose to his feet and grabbed one more piece of cheese. The three followed the UnderGrouts in a solemn procession up the stairs, their six shadows flickering on the circular tower walls in weird, elongated shapes.
Tully looked back: Hen-Hen’s chin was near his chest as he stared into space. His head nodded slightly. Then he seemed to drift off into sleep, and the great, fat bees that adorned his chin rose into a cloud above him, fanned out into the room with a whispering buzz, and were gone through the open windows. Maybe spies, Tully thought suddenly, but for whom? Did Hen-Hen know that they left him at night?
About halfway up the staircase, the first UnderGrout opened a door and gestured at the three to step inside.
“Thanks,” said Aarvord gruffly, but they didn’t acknowledge him.
“Boo,” said Aarvord, right in the face of the nearest UnderGrout, who placidly ignored him. “You three alive? Never mind, never mind.” Aarvord led the way and Tully and Copernicus followed him into the room. The door clicked shut behind them.
The room was curiously shaped; like a circle with a hole in the center, it extended all the way around the stone tower, with the staircase where the hole would be. They walked all the way around, admiring the sumptuous paintings and tapestries, each of which depicted battles from ages past. None of the battles, noted Tully, included a strange shadow-enemy.
One of the tapestries showed a scene from the Small War, which was not particularly small at all—only in comparison with some of the wars that had preceded it, and due to its mercifully short length of only 27 days. It had followed the war between the Vivipars and the Ovipars, and before that had been the war—limited in scope but no less bloody— between Common Crests and Lesser Frells.
Tully had been born into the heart of the Small War, which raged throughout the heat of the end of summer known as the Dying Days. He gazed at the scenes with distaste, wondering why anyone would choose to immortalize this unhappiness through art. Efts carried edged maces and fought side by side with Wents—the most peaceful creatures on the planet, and unaccustomed to violence. The Wents swung fire-whips—long threaded weapons with hot stones at their ends. Their opponents were the Dualings—creatures who had but two beings who brought them to life, rather than three, and their numbers were many.
Tully had only once seen such weapons in person. He had been sent down to the cistern to find and loosen a blockage in the pipes. As he dug through the wet moss to find the entryway to the water tunnel, his fingers had run over something sharp, and he had drawn back his hand. It was a thick, serrated sword—as big as his arm—and he had pulled it out and turned it in the dank green light in the underburrow of his home. Whoever had hidden it here perhaps intended to retrieve it, so Tully returned the sword to its hiding place.
He wondered, when he went above again, who had owned the weapon. He had gained three Wents during the war in addition to Kellen, his own. Hindrance, Bly, and Sarami had all lost their families, and had come to live with Tully and Kellen. The arrangement was meant to be temporary—opening one’s doors to orphans and strays was a common kindness. Tully could not imagine any of them wielding such a cruel weapon. But he knew that they all had. They had all struck killing blows, even Hindrance, whom he had grown to love.
Tully leaned closer and touched the soft weave of the tapestry. It was thick, and smelled wetly of unkindness, or blood, or something else that was wrong and bad. Under his fingers an image of an Eft, like himself, drove a sword point into the breast of a Scratchling. The blood and feathers did not seem real this close up—they seemed like a blur of color, with no shape or sense. The Small War had given him Bly, and Sarami, and his own Hindrance. But it had also taken from him Desidere and Skakell. They were gone. And he had never really known them.
Tully turned away from the tapestry. “Nice art,” he said, gloomily. “Nice for sleep.”
Hen-Hen seemed to have anticipated their wish to stay together, for in one section of the room there were two freshly made beds and a small pallet (with accompanying miniature pillow and blanket) at their base. One of the beds was filled with fresh, clear water, made for an Eft. On seeing this bed, Tully realized how exhausted he was. Everything that had happened today had worn him out both emotionally and physically, and he was still recovering from his illness. He set his wooden bucket down.
Tully sank into the watery bed. Just as he laid his head on the pillow, he heard a small, alarmed squawk from somewhere near his right ear. He sat up and flicked a hand through his thin tendrils of hair, and out on the surface of the water fell Fangor the Sand Louse.
“What time is it? Why am I wet?” said Fangor, bouncing up onto Tully’s arm. “Why’d you have to smack me like that? Feels like I’ve been asleep for days. Is it a party? Where are we? What are those awful paintings? Didja get
my dream-day gift? Oof, but I’m ready for some dinner!”
Tully gaped. The wretched creature had been in his hair, sleeping, throughout the entire day. Copernicus wriggled up over the edge of the bed, and Aarvord leaned over, both equally stunned.
“I ought to smack you!” said Aarvord. “Tagging along like that, when you’re not wanted.”
“I ought to ssswallow you up!” said Copernicus, opening his jaw menacingly.
“Hoy! Wait!” shrieked Fangor. “I fell asleep is all. I was bringing my burfday gift and I couldn’t help it, just lay down and went asleep. I was up late bouncing around, you know.” Fangor hopped up and down Tully’s arm excitedly. “Wiff all the boys. And some girls, too.” He winked, but no one noticed, as he was too small.
“Did you hear anything today? See anything?” asked Tully, picking Fangor up between thumb and forefinger. The Sand Louse wriggled in displeasure.
“No! No! Nuffing!” he buzzed. “Put me down!”
Tully dropped him on the floor, disgusted. Fangor was nothing but a pest, and now they were stuck with him. They’d have to do their best to lose him tomorrow.
“Well, you’re here now,” said Aarvord, “but we’re going to sleep. So you’ll have to entertain yourself somehow.”
Fangor wasn’t listening; he had already spotted the piece of cheese Tully had placed on the bedside table and was hopping toward it, making nasty yum-yum noises. Tully groaned and flopped into the watery bed; he hoped that Fangor would not be inclined to nest in his hair again tonight. The very thought made him itch. That awful little louse. He fell asleep thinking of Fangor being trod under a boot. Then he dreamed.
*
The Boring Bees were rising into the air above Hen-Hen’s tower, illuminated by the moon. They rose higher and higher, until they made a ring around the moon’s white face. A dark ring. The ring began to turn, clockwise, then counterclockwise, as if opening a hidden safe that the moon held hostage. Tully strained to see what it was they were revealing: Would the moon crack open and spill whiteness into the sky? But then a cloud obscured the picture, and Tully could not see the bees or the moon. He was left in complete darkness.
The Hundred: Fall of the Wents Page 4