Set the Stars Alight

by Amanda Dykes

  Dash, too, ran his hands along it. He stooped to examine the handiwork, to tug tentatively, then firmly, and find it immovable.

  “Impossible,” they said at the same time.

  They looked at each other, and a smile tugged at Lucy’s mouth. “It’s from the Jubilee,” she said. “These carvings, the black walnut—there is no other ship this could possibly be. Do you realize what this means?”

  “That someone chose some expensive wood to make this old scaffolding?” Dash’s smile lines were back.

  “Understatement of the century,” Lucy said, laughter buoying her voice. “And it’s been right under our noses this whole time. Literally.”

  Just as boldness seeped into her bones, whispering to her that she was safe here, that she should take a plank, just one, her light blinked out.

  She reached up and tapped her head torch. “It’s done.”

  Dash put his hand on her arm. “We need to go, Lucy. We have no way of knowing how long my lamp is going to last. I’ll lead the way. Stay close.”

  He turned and started for the exit tunnel.

  “Okay, but I just . . .”

  How could she leave without a piece of the Jubilee’s beautifully carved wood? She had searched for so long. Without the light of her head torch, the rockslide was filled with shadows, but she stepped toward a piece she knew would be a perfect specimen. She paused, the pull of the wood barricaded by an instinct even stronger. If she unleashed a landslide—if she hurt Dash—nothing was worth risking that.

  “I’ll be back for you,” she whispered. Turning to follow Dash, she felt her sweater snag on something behind. Glancing back, her eyes widened as the plank slid from its place in obedience, the sickening scrape of rock upon rock sounding. Lucy lunged to stop it as Dash’s light swung to light the rockslide.

  “Lucy, no!”

  A crack sounded above them.

  And the roar of a dragon unleashed.

  forty-five

  In a cave in the ground a babe was born.

  In a cave in the ground a man from a cross was buried.

  In a cave in the ground the trees grew.

  In a cave in the ground the light was mined.

  In a cave . . . in a cave . . . in a cave . . . light broke into dark.

  Again, and again, and again. The story of the ages. The story of life.

  And in a cave in the ground Lucy Claremont lay with those splintered thoughts burrowing up from the past.

  She swam in a dreamland so dark and so cold—a fog of sirens unfurling into pouring rain, Lucy trapped in a wrecked car. Sick with fear in a stranded car on the Jubilee line of the Underground. A burst of bubbles as her cell phone submerged into the murky waters of the Thames, flickering bright with THE HIDDEN KINGDOM before going entirely dark.

  But that last hadn’t happened—only almost happened. The hint of the untrue sent her clambering up from those snatches of past. The barrage of cold rain slowed as memory slid into foggy consciousness and the rain became a distant dripping, echoing somewhere far away, as if she were in a tunnel. Nothing, not even that thick, hot dark of the Tube, felt as heavy and hopeless as this.

  She was twelve again, sitting in the dark on the Jubilee line. Close your eyes, she told herself. That was what Dash had said, all those years ago.

  “It’ll still be dark . . . ”

  “But it’s a natural dark, Lucy. Nothing to be afraid of.”

  “But . . . it’ll still be dark.”

  “True . . . and I’ll still be with you.”

  She reached in the dark for her friend. Her heart.

  And blinked awake into pain, not knowing where she was or why she could not move her arms and legs. But she did know one thing. The hand she was finally able to move was not empty. Running her fingers over the warmth within them, she knew the carved contours and ridges.

  “Dash?” Her voice came out thick and dry. Why was it so hard to utter his name?

  Blinking, she strained to see in an effort that made her head pound.

  The cave. It hit her in a flood of memories. She’d pulled a plank of carved wood from a pile of stones. It had been an accident, yes, but one that would never have happened had she not lingered so close to the temptation. Her blood ran cold as she remembered one thing clearly—the warmth of Dash diving toward her, pushing her away from the path of the sliding rocks. And all going black.

  “Dash.” Her chest hurt. He was not moving. He did not reply. “Dash. Dash.” Frantic now, she struggled to move her left hand—pain seared as it scraped loose. Freed, she sucked painful air through clenched teeth.

  Twisting her body toward the man who was her very heart, she felt in the dark until she found a shoulder. Sliding her hand gently until she felt the buttons on his shirt, she waited, listened.

  “Please.” A prayer unto heaven. And a plea to Dash. Her heart raced, and she pressed her eyes closed, as if that could silence the pounding that she might hear past it, hear his heartbeat.

  She pressed her palm firmer to Dash’s chest . . . and there it was. Buried deep but reaching up from wherever he was in his sea of unconsciousness, touching her hand with his pulse. Thump. Thump. Thump.

  “Oh, Dash,” she breathed. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”

  In the silence she felt tears pooling, but she refused to break down. She closed her eyes to blink away the tears. Think, Lucy.

  Opening them again, she realized there was enough light that she could see silhouettes of rocks and Dash lying next to her. His head torch was gone. It must have been buried, still putting out this meager amount of light.

  The next moments of twisting, contorting, and moving rocks were a blur. She felt the scrapes and strains and maybe sprains or breaks as a collective fog, wincing against the pain and pushing through it with one thought in her mind: Dash.

  The impossibility of it all struck her with a cruel irony. The man who’d orbited the earth was now shackled by it. Rock by rock, she blindly worked, until she heard it.

  “Lucy . . .” His voice. Raspy, but it was his voice.

  She crouched down. “I’m here, Dash. Are you all right?” It was a ridiculous question. Of course he wasn’t all right.

  “Great.” The word scraped out of him. He pulled at his limbs, and she stilled him with her hands.

  “I’ll get you out,” Lucy said, looking around as if the darkness might suddenly reveal a solution for her. “I promise.” She moved the last rocks until, finally, Dash was free, but she was pretty sure it was a bad idea to try to move him—or let him move. She had to find a way out. “Stay still, Dash. Don’t move.”

  She scrambled to her feet, trying to orient herself. “Help!” she yelled, her voice coming out in a thin ribbon. “Help!” But the call did not echo. The cavern did not carry it along on a current of ricocheting sound. It swallowed the single syllable up, just as it had swallowed them.

  Once again, Lucy turned to the question of where the meager light was coming from. But as she turned to explore, Dash struggled to rise, so she knelt beside him. He looked at her with one eye squinted. Seeing? Not seeing? She did not know. Then his head dropped heavily. Her hands slid behind it just in time to break his fall. His hair was damp, his skin so clammy—and he grimaced.

  “Turn it to Capella,” he said.

  Lucy’s stomach sank. A strand of horror slithered inside of her as she recognized the unmistakable sky-navigator mode he’d slipped into. He did not know where he was.

  She thought hard to the first-aid training she’d taken so many years ago. Signs of shock . . . what had they been? Fast pulse, even if weak. Coldness. Sweat. Confusion. And dizziness. With a swallow around the growing lump in her throat, she asked, “How do you feel?”

  “Stuck.” He barely got the word out, along with a few dry laughs, which led to coughing. “Orbiting.”

  Orbiting . . . ? Of course, Dashel Green when pinned in a hopeless state would not just say “dizzy.” She wished she could laugh, love him for it—but all sh
e felt was fear, more deeply than she knew possible.

  “That’s what we do, Lucy. We orbit.”

  Her thoughts scrambled, and she slipped into a surreal calm, even as her mind raced. Concussion, shock, some hidden injury—these possibilities drove her into mechanical action. Pulling her cardigan off of her shoulders, she spread it over Dash, stretching it to wrap around his shoulders so broad. It wrenched her to wonder if they would rise again.

  But such wonderings would do him no good.

  Lucy’s chest hurt as she returned to his statement. “Yes,” she said. “We orbit. Around and around the sun, like you always said.”

  Dash laughed. “You and me,” he said. “Capella A, Capella B. We orbit each other.”

  He was naming stars, senselessly, but at least he was talking. If she could keep him talking, maybe get him to where she was sure enough to leave him, to find help.

  The very thought of leaving tore something deep inside of her. Hot tears escaped, and she lay down beside him. Got as close as she could, feeling his face more than seeing it. Enough time had passed that Spencer and Violette should soon realize there was a problem and would come looking for them . . . but would it be too late?

  “Dash,” she said softly, “I have to leave you.”

  “I know,” he said. He began to tremble. “You have to go . . . to the sea.”

  She reached over him with a light embrace and prayed. Prayed his tremors might still, his pulse might steady. Clear his mind, Lord. Her lungs constricted with physical pain at leaving him. “Remember your note, when you left London way back?”

  He moaned, and her every sense stung with panic.

  “Dash?” Was she losing him?

  “The note,” he mumbled. “Don’t remind me. Worst mistake of my life.”

  She laughed at his joke, her heart simultaneously rending within her. “You said you wouldn’t say good-bye because it would never be good-bye for us, not ever. You remember that. Don’t slip away.” She struggled to infuse hope she did not feel into her voice. “I’m coming back for you.”

  His face next to hers, that light seeping in ever so softly from somewhere, she saw his eyes for the first time. And they looked clear—lucid and seeing, regret and hope all pooled together.

  “That’s what I always told myself,” he said. “I was coming back for you.” He coughed, tried to lift an arm and winced. “But I was too late, wasn’t I.”

  No. The word pulsed against her ribs with such strength it would surely have brought the whole cave down upon them had she released it. She caught that wild word in its thrashing state, harnessed it with every ounce of self-control she had, and uttered it into the cave in a whisper. “No.” She swallowed. “Never too late, Dash.” A beat of silence stretched into eternity. “How can you be late for always?”

  Gently, tentatively, she reached a hand up to his hair, ran her fingers slowly through it. That he would understand that she was not ready—would never be ready—to say good-bye to him.

  His eyes lingered, reading hers. “‘I have’”—his voice was patchy, like it had been dragged over the rubble surrounding them—“‘loved . . . the stars too fondly . . .’”

  Lucy choked back a wave of heat that threatened to break into a sob. But she would not do that to him, would not cover this moment in the despair she felt. She would instead finish the words of “The Old Astronomer” that he could not.

  “‘. . . to be fearful of the night.’” She nodded, unable to stop a tear from falling on his cheek. She brushed it away and ran her thumb over his face.

  Never could those two kids stuck in the Underground, whispering of a poem too lofty for the likes of them, have imagined that those words would come back to them this way. “It’s about love,” Lucy had said. “It’s about dying,” Dash had said. They had finally agreed it was about hope. Then their heads had bonked and that had been the end of that.

  But this would not be the end. There was still time. There had to be. His thready breathing quickened her spirit unto action. “I’ll be back soon, Dash. Hang on.”

  And with a prayer, she pulled herself up, stepped back, picked her way over rubble—and for the first time, felt heavy dread anchor her in place.

  For the rockslide had obscured both passageways. Behind and before, they were walled into their own impossible catacomb.

  forty-six

  Her parents had named her “light,” placed her in a cradle in a room where glass was once ground, where matchsticks were born. And here she was, drowning in darkness.

  Lucy felt the air thinning, the blackness pressing. But behind her, the breathing of her truest friend drove her on.

  She clambered up over one pile, thinking to dig her way out, run back, find Spencer and Violette. Someone could go on for help while the others came back for Dash.

  But nothing would budge.

  She clambered up over the other side. Maybe the rockslide had opened up the long-closed passage. Surely the tunnel went on to the village or beyond—wherever the smugglers had dug.

  She finally found a rock that jiggled ever so slightly. Yes. Thank you! Wedged her hands behind it, unheeding of the way her skin screamed in protest, bones pinched, muscles strained. She pulled, leaning back with her entire being. It would come. It would be a start! It rocked, and rocked . . . but with a final yank, some contour or unseen lip caught, sending her sprawling back, stumbling to stay upright, to stay alive. To save Dash.

  She would try again. And did. And failed again.

  Oh, God . . . Tears strangled her unfinished prayer, and she quieted herself. She could not cry out, could not let her ominous despair reach Dash’s ears.

  “What do I do?” she whispered, standing with both feet planted firmly in a mountain of impossible.

  “Nothing is impossible.” The watchmaker’s echoes reached through time, pulled up in memory.

  “Just think.” This was Mum’s voice. The echo of it filling Lucy’s mind, inviting her to peel back what lay on the surface and see something remarkable beneath.

  “Pay attention, now.” Father.

  “Ad tendere.” Mum.

  Eyes pressed closed, Lucy saw her mother sliding that plate of biscuits over, a twinkle in her eye. “To stretch toward.”

  The words, these bits of memories, snatched at Lucy’s senses as if they were flakes of snow, drifting down, delivering instructions she did not understand.

  Realization hit her. She was losing her mind. The air was surely limited. Would she soon be unconscious?

  The thought clawed at her, sent her scrambling higher, straining her eyes to see.

  “Just think,” she whispered. “Nothing is impossible. Pay attention.”

  If she could not go back and she could not go forward, there was only one option.

  Up. She would dig her way out with her fingernails if she had to.

  “Pay attention. Stretch toward.” She looked to the ceiling and finally noticed the source of the faint light filling the cavern. Bits of light filtered through what appeared at first to be a solid ceiling.

  She scrambled to the pile of rubble beneath the light source and immediately regretted all the loose rocks she had sent tumbling—for she needed them now. And so, rock by rock, climb by climb, unheeding of how much time was passing, she built the mound higher, hollering every now and again to check on Dash. She dreaded the time he would not respond, but for now, he had strength enough for the briefest replies. Enough to keep her digging with increasing ferocity, though her muscles burned.

  Finally she reached the spot where tendrils of light filtered through the cavern ceiling and began to run her palms over the surface. She moved her feet to find solid footing. Grains of soil loosened, dusting her with spiced earth that smelled less of must and more of life. She pulled away the thatching of branches and roots that looked decidedly man-made, and the light strengthened.

  As she worked, she considered that Frederick might have used this room not just as a place of worship but also as a storehou
se of goods. Her breath hitched an odd hiccup of hope . . . as she thought of a witness seeing the legendary Mad Kit Bill vanish into thin air.

  “It was you,” she whispered, as if Frederick, the carver of this unlikely home, could hear her.

  It was far-fetched. But nothing is impossible. Hadn’t that been the motto of her entire childhood? Trained into her, for such a time as this?

  She began to tremble, not daring to name the warmth that overtook her. But deep down she knew it was hope.

  She clutched and tugged, tore and snagged, and pulled herself up until she was hanging on the thatching, toes barely touching the rocks beneath. Finally the branches and roots gave way to stalks and stems and brambles—thorned brambles, her pricked and scratched hands told her.

  Soon the brambles became too thick to continue with her raw hands, so she picked a rock from the pile and hacked away in upward thrusts, defying gravity until . . . at last her fist broke through. By turns, her arms followed, and finally her face turned up into a late-afternoon sky whose brightness burned all the brighter to her cave-conditioned sight.

  Tracing the ancient path of Mad Kit Bill, she flew across that pasture, defying time.

  forty-seven

  The hours that followed were a blur of people gathering, rescuers pulling Dash from the cavern, the ambulance carrying him away, and fear clawing at them all. About the same time Lucy had arrived to find help, Spencer and Violette had arrived as well, frantic after being unable to reach them for the rockslide-blocked tunnel.

  The hospital waiting room was torture, where gleaming floors held up to Lucy’s pacing, and Sophie’s hand reached to squeeze hers. An offering of grace that Lucy offered right back.

  When the doctor came out to give a report on Dash and his injuries, the details pooled together—bruising, fractures, monitoring. Lucy felt her heart rise into her throat at the mention of his head, that mind proclaimed brilliant from so long ago.

  “We have every reason to believe that all will be well,” the doctor said, and sent them all home. Lucy lingered, asking to see him even though he was unconscious.