Fablehaven: The Complete Series (245 page)

With a cacophony of muttering, grunting, barking, growling, shrieking, and coughing, the Totem Wall came to life. The wooden faces blinked and sniffed and yawned. Tongues wagged. Expressions shifted. The jumbled words spoken by the human faces came out in a language that Seth didn’t comprehend.

“I’m Seth Sorenson,” Seth said. “I’ve come to speak with the Totem Wall.”

The heads fell silent. A broad male head, old and proud, near the bottom center of the wall, spoke in a profound, resonant voice. “We are many. Choose four to treat with.”

“Do all of you speak English?” Seth asked.

“You will hear your language,” the head replied. “Choose.” He sounded somewhat impatient.

“Very well,” Seth said, trying to keep his manner official. “I will speak with Anyu the Hunter, Tootega the Crone, Yuralria the Dancer, and Chu the Beaver.”

A surprised murmur rippled across the wall, ending as quickly as it began.

“I hear you,” said a rough-hewn male face halfway up the left side of the wall. A knot in the wood disfigured one cheek like a scar.

“I hear you,” said a shrewd, hooded face near the bottom right. Intricately carved, she had the most wrinkles of any totem.

“I hear you,” said a young, beautiful face with high cheekbones near the top of the wall. The polished smoothness of her features betrayed little evidence of damage from the elements.

“I hear you,” said the furry, bucktoothed face of a beaver just below the young woman. His voice sounded adolescent.

After this acknowledgment, the Totem Wall waited, all eyes on Seth. Shifting his weight from side to side, he clasped his hands behind his back. “I seek Vasilis, the Sword of Light and Darkness. I know you guard it. I want to enter and retrieve it.”

Another outburst of muttered exclamations fluttered across the wall.

“Silence,” demanded the Crone. “How do you know the location of Vasilis?”

“I paid a price,” Seth said.

The Hunter spoke in a gruff tone. “Then you should understand that we grant favors only upon receiving an acceptable sacrifice.”

“I understand,” Seth said respectfully.

“Yet you have little of value,” said the Beaver, “save perhaps the sword and the shield. They are unworthy shadows of the treasure we guard.”

“Do not press him so hard,” the Dancer fussed. “He is young.” Her voice softened. “What have you to offer?”

“Along with the sword, you house great evil,” Seth said. “Permit me to retrieve the sword, and I will purge the evil inside of you before I exit.”

“Others have come to us in search of Vasilis,” the Crone mused. “Rarely have they already suspected the location. We have admitted some. None have returned.”

“The youth speaks with confidence,” the Hunter approved.

“Any simpleton can speak with confidence,” the Dancer said. “Sometimes the greatest fools have the most bravado. The boy is young and naïve. He will come to harm, and he will not deliver on his promise.”

“The wise do nothing,” the Beaver complained. “The wise sit and advise. Their understanding prevents action. Do not underestimate the young.”

“What deeds have you accomplished?” the Hunter asked.

Seth hadn’t planned on turning in a resume. He tried to recall his highlights from the past couple of years. “I pulled a dark talisman from the neck of a revenant. I caught a leprechaun. I awoke Olloch the Glutton and put him back to sleep. I found the Chronometer, one of the keys to Zzyzx. I stole the horn of a unicorn from the centaurs at Grunhold. I have bargained with the giant Thronis and left him satisfied. I killed the dragon Siletta in order to retrieve an item from the dragons of Wyrmroost. I survived the Dreamstone at Obsidian Waste and helped retrieve the Translocator, another key to Zzyzx. And I’ve bargained with the Singing Sisters.”

“He speaks true,” the Crone said.

“And I’m telling you the truth now,” Seth said. “I don’t feel fear. I can get this sword and rid you of the evil hiding near it. And then I’ll use the sword to save the world.”

“He means what he says,” the Crone said.

“Tootega knows truth,” the Dancer admitted.

“He has accomplished much,” the Hunter granted.

“We should not measure him by age or appearance,” the Beaver said.

“He seeks no knowledge,” the Crone murmured. “No divination is required. What say you, Kattituyok?”

The proud face who had spoken first answered in a booming voice. “The evil behind the Alder Door has plagued us for many summers. The youth has named the four who control the Alder Door. This seems a good omen.”

“He may not return,” the Dancer said. “He should leave us tokens.”

“The sword and the shield,” the Hunter said.

“And the magical items from his bag,” the Crone added. “The tower and the fish.”

“Won’t I need my sword to fight?” Seth asked.

“Your sword and shield are well crafted from fine material, but they will avail you nothing beyond the Alder Door,” Kattituyok said. “Leave behind the requested items to seal the pact.”

“And I can reclaim my things if I succeed?” Seth verified.

“Purge the evil lurking beyond the Alder Door,” the Crone said, “and you may depart in peace with Vasilis and the rest of your items.”

“I say the same,” the Hunter stated.

“I say the same,” the Beaver echoed.

“I say the same,” the Dancer sighed.

“Do you accept?” Kattituyok asked.

“I accept,” Seth said, unbuckling his sword belt.

“The pact is made and sealed,” Kattituyok thundered. His resounding words made the stump vibrate.

Seth set down his sword and shield. Then he fished out the onyx tower and the agate leviathan. He set the items down. A previously unseen door swung open near the bottom right of the wall. The Crone’s withered face filled the center of the door.

“Can I go?” Seth asked.

“Away,” Kattituyok said. “Good hunting.”

Seth climbed down from the stump and walked to the doorway, conscious of the many eyes of the Totem Wall scrutinizing his movements. Cold air wafted from the dark corridor beyond. A primitive torch on the wall ignited spontaneously. Stepping through the door, Seth pocketed his flashlight and picked up the torch. Behind him, the door swung shut with the finality of a coffin lid.

The crude, rounded corridor sloped gradually downward. No beams or stonework supported the crumbly walls and ceiling. The air grew colder as Seth progressed, and he held the torch close for warmth.

The Singing Sisters had warned him about the Standing Dead. He was unsure what exactly to expect, but he imagined they might be like the revenant. He lacked a sword, but perhaps the fiery torch would serve him better. The Sisters had told him that he could pass the Standing Dead only if he remained without fear. He knew that magical fear would fail against him, and tried to prepare his mind to resist the more natural variety.

The corridor stretched onward, deeper and colder. He walked briskly, partly to stay warm, partly hoping that haste might help keep him from freaking himself out.

At last the corridor opened into a rectangular room where the top of his head almost reached the ceiling. Despite the great width and length of the room, the low ceiling gave it a claustrophobic feel, like a sprawling basement. The frigid air suggested the presence of magical fear, although, as expected, he felt no paralysis.

As the light from his torch revealed the scene, the hair stood up on Seth’s arms, and goose pimples erupted on his skin. Row after row of standing corpses filled the expansive room. And not just any corpses. They were bony and dry, as if their ancient remains had been mummified. What meat remained on their discolored bones looked like black jerky. What skin survived looked brown and stretched and utterly dehydrated. Evenly spaced, the cadavers stood upright, arms at their sides, like an army at attention. Rank upon rank of empty eye sockets stared vacantly.

Seth had been prepping himself not to react with fear. He had told himself that no matter what he saw, or heard, or smelled, he would shrug and continue onward. After all, if the Standing Dead only preyed on fear, he didn’t need to fret about them. He just needed to maintain control of his emotions.

But despite his intentions, Seth felt his control slipping. The sight of the torchlit bodies surprised him. It was creepier than he had imagined. This was how corpses looked when they had been buried in the desert for centuries. They should not be standing in orderly rows and columns, deep underground.

Some of the nearest corpses began to twitch. The movement made Seth gasp, and a few of them took steps forward. Rustling movements rippled through the entire assemblage. Doubt fully awakened inside of Seth. He became scared that he was becoming scared. Dry bones scuffed against the dirt floor. Desiccated arms reached toward him.

His mind scrambled. What was his problem? Why was he losing his grip? Was it being alone? Was it self-doubt? Was it the thought of walking through the undead crowd? Was it the cold? Was it the low ceiling? The quantity of corpses? The inhumanity of their appearance? The way their joints creaked when they moved? The fact that he had lost control enough to start them moving? Some snowballing combination of all these factors?

Perhaps he had been too overconfident, too assured that his immunity to magical fear would prevent natural fear. Like anyone, he still got scared.

He realized that he couldn’t hear their minds. He had gotten used to hearing the undead. For some reason, these were silent. That had helped them surprise him and made them feel more foreign.

Entire rows of mummified bodies shuffled toward him. The nearest had almost reached him. He could see stringy ligaments and tendons working. Was he about to die? What about his family? Who would save them? Would they ever learn he had perished because he was afraid?

Shame blossomed in his breast. He could almost hear Kendra disbelieving that cowardice had killed him. Courage was supposed to be his best attribute!

How could he change his feelings? When he had nightmares, the experience was always worst when he was alone. If there was ever a friend in his dream, somebody to protect, the fear lost potency. At this moment, as fleshless fingers grasped for him, he needed somebody to be brave for, somebody to not let down. He struggled to summon images of his family—his parents, his grandparents.

What came was the memory of Coulter. He saw his friend pinned under a beam, heard him gasping his last breaths. Coulter, who had saved him in the grove with the revenant, when magical fear had frozen them. Suddenly Seth no longer felt alone. There was no way he was going to let Coulter down. He had promised.

“Stop!” Seth yelled, swinging his torch angrily. The corpses paused. “I’m not afraid anymore! You just startled me.” As he said the words, he realized they were true. Apparently the Standing Dead could sense it as well. None of them stirred.

“You guys have got to be the shabbiest dead people I’ve ever seen,” Seth accused. He strode forward, passing between the unmoving corpses. “You’re what’s left after the vultures give up. You make zombies look healthy. If you want to scare people, you better pool your funds and rent a wraith or something.”

Making fun of them helped his spirits, and the Standing Dead didn’t seem to mind. He saw them with new eyes, pathetic puppets without wills of their own. Slaves to his mood, unable to harm him if he simply refused. Decrepit, frail, pathetic. He hurried past them, too full of purpose and new confidence to leave room for doubt.

A black door stood at the back of the room. It had no knob, no keyhole. When he pressed on it with his free hand, the door swung inward.

The torch went out immediately. One instant it was blazing, the next not a spark remained, leaving behind impenetrable darkness. Trying to keep his courage steady, Seth stepped into the room and closed the door, relieved to have a barrier between himself and the Standing Dead. He dropped the torch and pulled the flashlight from his pocket. He switched it on, but no light came out.

“Why have you intruded on my privacy?” a weary, male voice rasped from further in the room.

“Who’s there?” Seth asked.

“It took courage to pass the Standing Dead,” the voice said. “Especially after you initially lost your composure. Yet they are nothing compared to me. I could slay you with a word.”

“Who are you?” Seth asked again.

“I am one of the undead,” the voice answered. “Aren’t you supposed to be a shadow charmer, Seth? Can’t you probe my thoughts?”

“How do you know my name?”

“Your mind was open to me the moment you entered the Alder Door. More open than most would be. What do you suppose your parents are doing right now? Dying, perchance, like your friend Coulter?”

Seth squeezed his flashlight. “I don’t care what you are, you better shut up.”

“Careful,” the voice warned. “Down here, I am judge, jury, and executioner. Why do you want Vasilis?”