By Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
Chapter Thirty "An Underground River"
Sarah stood up alongside the banks of a muddy, low river at the bottom of the well.
The last thing she remembered before falling in and cracking her crown was that she had agreed to help Mr. Plimsoul and Eva to open the Casket of Augersaal. She had been singing it open, to the tune the little harp in the smoky globe played. There had been a light so astonishing when the casket began to open, that Sarah had turned away violently, shutting her eyes and crying out. That's when she tilted over into the well.
Her head felt as if it'd been done in by a sledgehammer. She put her hand up to the side of her head, and felt the cold helmet. It was even colder than she was. And, it was on crooked. Sarah straightened the helmet briefly, and noticed a tinkling sound. She felt as if the weight of the world were on her shoulders. Then she looked down and saw that she had a coat of clean chain mail on, shimmering in the dimness.
Sarah screamed.
All around her feet, and roiling over them busily, was the largest pack of rats Sarah had ever seen. They were black rats--all of them except one. And many of they looked lank and hungry, with bits of fur lost in some ancient strife of the wharf where life was rat against rat. But worse were the big sleek ones. They looked like they knew how to get what they wanted. And the biggest, fattest rat of all was sitting right on Sarah's foot and staring up at her like an obedient hound.
The other rats had started to scatter at Sarah's scream, which echoed like a moan around the underground river way. But not this one. Hizzlesnit continued to look up at Sarah, and even cocked his head to one side, as if awaiting instructions.
"Sorry I screamed," said Sarah. "It's just... rats!"
Sarah hardly knew why she was apologizing, but the rat seemed to accept it, and hopped off of Sarah's foot, and with a final look over its sleek shoulder, and what Sarah would have sworn was a one-tooth grin, it slithered fast as a cat (and nearly as large) onto a waiting quadrangle of sofa cushion. In moments, every other rat was afloat. The flotilla of rats paddled and cheeped into a darkness that Sarah could not penetrate.
Sarah took a moment to wonder about the underground river, though. It didn't seem to be flowing at all. It seemed to be as still as any lake, but what seemed strangest of all to Sarah was the song that floated back from the darkness of the unmoving river. It sounded like a shifting, hissy version of "Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!" After a second chorus of the rakish song, there was silence. This silence enveloped her completely as the rats diminished into the distance.
Into this silence, no sound came. But Sarah thought she saw a bulge in the darkness at one end of the riverbank on her side, just at the farthest edge of the well's downward glow. Yes, there was something, wasn't there. The bulge in the darkness flipped into a lighted outline, like flipping a switch. One outline, and then another. In seconds, a procession of illuminated outlines was headed toward Sarah. They were approaching rapidly, gliding more than walking. Although their legs were making a walking motion, that didn't seem to be what propelled them. Sarah tensed, and drew her sword without thinking. She held the blade between her and her potential adversaries. She settled her feet apart, and crouched like she was about to take a foul line shot in basketball.
The figures came toward her single file. The first one, Sarah now saw, was wearing an armor of its own. A great handlebar mustache hung from his face, and a spear as tall as two rakes leaned on his shoulder. The knight, for that's what he was, wore a silken panel over the top of his knee-length chain mail. He was a good deal taller than Sarah, and she could see hard muscle working beneath his mail. Sarah readied herself for a blow as he got within five feet of her. He had still retained his outline quality, though, and that was very odd to see up close. He mostly wasn't there at all. It was as if Sarah had stepped into a cartoon, but one that was still unfinished, one that hadn't been colored in yet.
The knight, with his long sad mustache, and his spear still held at attention, passed Sarah without even looking at her. Sarah followed him with her eyes for a moment, wondering if he would attack her from behind. But Sarah only had a moment, for hot on his heels had come another knight, dressed similarly, with a large square cross on his silken overshirt. This knight had a sword belted to his side with a knotted rope as well as a spear. He too passed by Sarah silently and without incident.
Sarah began to look in the direction the men had come from. She was amazed. There was a long line of men who had been proceeding from the bulge in the darkness. And, while those closest to her were dressed as medieval knights, Sarah could see redcoats and grenadiers and artillerymen of the Great War coming along after not too far behind. There seemed to be no end to the long grey line of soldiers. As they passed her, Sarah examined their faces. They were austere, as if they had seen much, and suffered much. But there was a calmness to them as well, a calmness that Sarah never saw on the complaining faces of the nothing's-ever-good-enough grown-ups. They may have had a hard time, the hardest time, but these men knew why they had sacrificed their lives. For these were dead men, Sarah was certain. Soldiers killed in all the wars that her nation had fought.
Now the men in the line were dressed in loose-fitting shapeless garments, or the whitened outline of such things, with camouflage patterns traced along them. These faces too were calm, certain, and austere rather than simply sad. Officers of every branch of the military walked by with the same strange, sliding gait. Sarah didn't know what to make of it all, but she stood straighter in her chain mail and heavy helmet. She sheathed her sword with a harsh shushing sound. Just then, a soldier, dressed just as Gilman had dressed on his graduation day, stepped out of the line and faced Sarah directly. He slipped his hand down Sarah's arm abruptly, and Sarah very nearly panicked.
The ghostly soldier gripped Sarah's hand very firmly. His hand was as cold as an icicle slipped down the back of your parka. But there was nothing wet or fishy about his grip. Sarah couldn't even manage a protest, for she knew it would be in vain. The soldier took her hand and forced it back around the hilt of her sword, and withdrew it from its sheath. He pulled her arm up so that the sword was before Sarah's face in a formal salute. It was only then that Sarah, looking past the shimmering blade, saw the soldier's face.
It was Gilman.
END OF CHAPTER THIRTY