Texting the Underworld (14 page)

He didn't. The armadillo took three steps, and then Conor couldn't see it anymore.
It's like stepping into nowhere.

“What . . . what's in there?” He hated how his voice sounded, an octave higher than usual. “Does it go underground?”

“Wimp-out alert,” Glennie said.

“He's not wimping out.” Ashling turned to Conor. “Yes, it goes underground—down to the Lady.”

Tons of rock. Tons of ocean water, too. Pressing, pressing down, down, down.

He couldn't do it.

Oya was back, blocking the path to the cave entrance. She glared at Ashling. “The living cannot enter the Underworld. You know the rules.” Conor wanted to kiss her.

“They have asked to test the Birds,” Ashling said coldly. “If you will step aside, we will be on our way.”

“The Cailleach will never let them pass.”

“We will try our luck.”

Glennie held a package of jelly beans out to Oya. “Fruity Fooler?”

Oya eyed the garish yellow and orange package with deep suspicion. “Is that food? We may not eat.”

“Why not?”

“A mystery of death.” Oya selected a red jelly bean, sniffed it. “I do not know what would happen to me if I ate Worldcraft.” She sniffed again, then returned the candy to the package. “They smell nice.”

Glennie rustled the package enticingly. “You could keep one. Just to sniff.”

A smile flickered on Oya's face, then went out. “It will not last more than a few minutes. Food decays quickly in the Underworld.” But she took back the jelly bean and held it to her nose. “I will enjoy the scent while I can. Thank you, child.” She drew herself up so she could glare at Ashling from her full height. “Go, then. Pray I do not tell the Lady you called me ‘dude.'”

“Follow me.” Ashling slithered over to the narrow doorway, waited for an orangutan to waddle through, then slipped in herself. The darkness took her.

I can't do this,
Conor thought.

“You're a brave kid, Conor,” Grump said. Taking Grump's arm, Glennie eased sideways into the narrow doorway, pulling him after her.

Conor latched on to Grump's belt before it got away from him. Ahead was darkness and depth and next to nothing—behind him, everything he'd ever been. He stumbled forward.
I am Conor O'Neill, 36A Crumlin Street, South Boston, Massachusetts, thirty-two hundred feet from Boston Harbor. I do not go into dark places under rock.
But then, he also didn't fly across the Atlantic Ocean with a banshee.

The passageway air was dead with dust, the walls inches away. The darkness felt solid, brushing against Conor's face.

Something snorted and followed him into the passageway. He closed his eyes so the dark made sense. Grump was breathing like three walruses.

“This is sorta fun.” Glennie's voice echoed ahead. “It's like blindman's bluff.”

He hated her so much.

Footfall after footfall, down, down, down. Darkness and more darkness. Conor wanted to curl up in a ball on the floor, go to sleep until it was over. But he kept walking.

Think of something else. A map.
“Mid-Atlantic Ridge,” he muttered. “Gotta be.” He envisioned his topographical map of the Atlantic Ocean and drew an imaginary circle where he thought he was. For a second or two he breathed easier.

Average ocean depth at sea floor, three miles,
his mind supplied before he could stop it. His breathing went raggedy.

The tunnel widened, then narrowed again.
Good thing I'm smaller now,
he thought.

Huh?
Smaller than what?

Behind his dark eyelids, something like a memory formed.

He's no longer young, but slavery has kept him muscular. He knows now that he's dead—nothing left to fear. Still, he seems to have a body and this tunnel is too narrow for it. He turns sideways, fighting a panic that shames him.

The animal ahead stops short, snorting. He shoves at it, but it won't budge. From behind, another animal presses against him.

The panic almost overwhelms him. He breathes deep and thinks of her, as he always does when he needs to escape from pain. Her red hair. Her uncanny eyes. She's been dead for years . . . Will he see her now? Probably not. But hope descends on him, quiets his breathing.

The animal ahead bellows and writhes, squeezes itself through the tight spot. The line struggles forward again.

Conor's eyes popped open.

He gasped, because the world was gray, no longer black. Dimly, he could see Grump's gait belt, his own hands gripping it.

“Ooo,” Glennie said. “Torches.”

They rounded a corner. The tunnel widened and turned into steps leading downward, flickering under torchlight.

The animals spread out in the extra space, leopard and llama amicably side by side. Far below, a figure dressed in white labored up the steps, weaving through the murmuring, bleating crowd.

“Grump,” Conor said, “can you do these steps okay?”

“Of course I can. Quit asking stupid questions.”

As they got closer, the figure in white turned out to be a bald man in a toga. “Hello, Charon.” Ashling moved to one side so the old man could pass.

“Charon?” Grump burst out. “He's a Greek myth, for cripes' sake. First some African lady, now this. What the heck is going on around here?”

“One person's myth is another's religion,” Glennie said, prim under her raccoon-faced hat.

“If I want your opinion I'll ask for it.” Grump leaned back against the wall to catch his breath.

Charon stopped several steps below them. He and Grump were performing a walrus-breathing duet. “You . . . think . . . Keltoi . . . the only people on earth?” Charon panted.

“Keltoi?” Glennie said.

“Celts.” Grump glared at Charon. “That's us. In Greek, though.”

Charon bent over, catching his breath and watching a stream of beetles and crickets flow around and past him. “Glad to see . . . they're moving. I was so worried . . . things would get . . . backed up.”

“They did,” Ashling said. “I don't see why you don't widen this entrance.”

“Pure theater, dear.” Charon straightened, joints creaking. “The Dear Departed like a last challenge, you know. Although I do need to go up and move things along.”

“Oya's up there now,” Ashling said.

Charon groaned. “Ohhhhh, lordy . . . Mistress High and Mighty will have one or two words to say, I'm sure. She's always after me about the portals.”

“Dude, she's right.”

“‘Dude,' did you say?” Charon's eyes lit up. “You've been in the World. I went there a few times.” His eyes went unfocused, a soft smile playing around his lips. “Watched a joust. Three people died. I brought them home with me. Very pleasant they were. So pleasant.”

“We'll be going now,” Ashling said. “Is the Cailleach at the second gate?”

Conor hoped Charon would say no.

He didn't. “Ill-tempered as ever, the old bat. But you'll get through fast enough.” Charon beamed at Glennie. “My goodness, you're a healthy-looking one. If I didn't know better, I'd almost say you were al—”

“Thank you, Charon,” Ashling interjected. “We must move along now.”

“Me too.” Charon took a deep breath, trudged up two steps, then stopped in mid-trudge. “You don't have coins in your mouths, I suppose?”

Conor shook his head.

“Didn't think so.” Charon sighed. “Greek thing, mostly, although the Keltoi sometimes did it in ages past. Used to be a rule—no Dear Departed would dream of coming to the Underworld without a coin for me. Even the Greeks don't always do it now. I've no use for the coins, you understand. But it's a lovely custom.”

Charon seemed very knowledgeable.

“Um, sir?” Conor said. “Can you tell us where we are? I mean, is this the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, or—”

“You're dead, son. Relax. There's no going back.”

“But, no, you don't understand . . .”

A horse rounded the corner up above, then a cow. Charon waved pleasantly and headed up again, hugging the tunnel wall to get past the animals. The tiger arrived and butted his head against Charon in playful fashion.

“Isn't Charon going to get squished?” Glennie asked.

“He's a demigod,” Ashling said. “They don't squish. Hurry, we must move.”

Grump took a step forward, tottered, and slumped back against the wall. “Grump!” Conor tried to hold him up by the gait belt, but the old man was too heavy and too tired. Conor had no choice but to let him slide his back down the tunnel wall and sit.

“Give me . . . a minute,” Grump panted. “I'll be fine.”

“You have to get up, old man,” Ashling said. “We do not have time for this.”

The horse and cow were upon them. Conor huddled over Grump, face to the wall, trying to shield his panting grandfather. Hooves clopped past, missing Grump's foot by a hairsbreadth.

“Aw,” Glennie said. “Look, he remembers me.” The tiger was leaning against her, purring, gazing into her face. “I guess he likes people dropping on him.”

“Old man,” Ashling said. “We must move.”

“Help me up, kiddos.” Grump put his good hand up for Glennie. Conor grabbed the belt from the front, and they both heaved. Grump gritted his teeth but let out only one gasp when he stumbled back against the wall, jostling his broken arm.

Glennie clutching his good arm and Conor holding on to the belt, Grump took a tentative step down the tunnel. “Stupid old fool,” he muttered. “Useless.”

Something nudged the back of Conor's knee. He looked down to see the tiger's huge head butting into Grump's legs. “Hey! Cut that out!”

Grump staggered. The tiger squatted, thrust his head forward and through Grump's legs. Grump tipped over backward, landing square on the tiger's shoulders, Glennie and Conor desperate to hang on and keep him from sliding off sideways.

The tiger shrugged Grump into a more comfortable seat on his back. Then the beast walked calmly forward. Conor and Glennie had to scurry to stay on either side of Grump, who was openmouthed speechless for the first time in Conor's memory.

“He's giving Grump a ride.” Glennie was awestruck. “Good boy.” The tiger rumbled in acknowledgment and kept walking.

“At least someone has some sense,” Ashling said. “Come. Hurry.”

They could move faster now. “It's not as slimy down here,” Conor commented to Ashling's back. “This must be where they stop pooping.”

“I told you.”

They rounded another corner, then another. Conor lost all sense of direction—they could have been heading back west to Boston for all he knew. The steps got less steep, then steeper, then evened out again. At last they reached a place where the tunnel sloped gently downward, without any stairs at all. “Almost there, I think,” Ashling said.

It was colder. Conor put his sweater and jacket back on. Glennie's nose was red, her breath coming out in clouds.

And then the growling began—or rather, Conor finally noticed the growling and realized it had been an undercurrent in the air ever since the tunnel went flatter.

“What's that noise?” Glennie was not smirking.

“Probably Dormath,” Ashling said.

“Doormat?” Glennie tried to snicker, but managed only a tiny bleat.

Ashling shot a blue-eyed stare over her shoulder. “I wouldn't jest right now if I were you.”

“What's Dormath?” Conor was proud that his voice didn't shake.

“He is a dog. The Cailleach's dog.”

“Is he friendly?”

“Not very.”

Conor had never been afraid of dogs. But he was open to changing his mind.

The growling was so loud that it bounced around on the rock walls. Conor kept whirling to look behind him, thinking the dog was there. The tiger remained placid, perhaps feeling that nothing could threaten a dead tiger.

“If Dormath doesn't bother the animals, he won't bother us,” Conor ventured to Ashling.

“They're not alive. You are.”

Conor halted, aghast. “Will he even let us in?”

“I don't know.” Ashling kept walking.

“Why did you bring us here, then?” To make her stop, he raised his voice. It quavered among the echoes.

She did stop. “I thought you wanted to save your family.”

“I thought we'd talk to the Lady. I didn't think we'd get torn apart by a dog.”

“Look at your eyebrows, peaking up like that. Have you no pride?” Ashling started walking again. “I'll do what I can to save you.”

“Just because you're dead doesn't mean the rest of us want to die, too,” he flung at her retreating back. She ignored him and disappeared around the corner.

“I don't like dogs that much,” Glennie said.

“You're not afraid of anything,” Grump said from the tiger's back.

“Okay, I don't like big huge dogs who want to eat me.” She stroked the tiger's shoulder. “But our friend here will protect us.”

“I don't know,” Conor said. “He doesn't seem all that riled up to me.”

His legs carried him down the tunnel, then around the corner. Where they froze. Along with every other part of him.

“Irish wolfhound,” Grump said. “What a beauty. I hear they're very protective of their masters.”

To Conor, Dormath was a shaggy, skinny goblin on four impossibly tall legs. His bottomless black eyes were level with Conor's, about a foot away. Yellowish gray and rangy, the dog's face reminded him of Grump. Even the raggedy eyebrows looked like an old man's.

Dormath opened his mouth and panted, drool streaming from his lower fangs. His breath smelled like cinnamon and something dead. The low growl they'd been hearing came from deep in his throat.

There was space to walk around the dog, but that didn't seem like a good idea. Beyond Dormath, Ashling waited with a tall figure veiled in black. They stood before a high archway, also black-veiled.

The veiled figure had a battered beige laptop computer, supported by a strap around what seemed to be its neck. Its bony fingers
tap-tap-tap
ped incessantly on the keyboard as llamas and leopards and beetles and grasshoppers swarmed past.

In one flowing move, the tiger sat down and Grump slid gently to the floor. The tiger touched Glennie's nose with his and shouldered past Dormath. He paused before the black-veiled figure, which typed something into its computer and nodded. The tiger pushed through the black-veiled archway and was gone.

Dormath grinned, his drool now a puddle on the stone floor.

“Do something, Conor,” Glennie whispered.

“Help me get Grump up.” A bit stronger after the ride on the tiger, Grump could stay on his feet unaided.

Dormath yawned, closing his mouth with an ominous snap.

“Hello,” Conor tried to say, but really he sort of squeaked.

Dormath gazed into his eyes, drooling.
“Wow-whoa.”
His voice was a croak.

“Can . . . can you talk?”

“Wow-whoa,”
Dormath croaked again.

“Hel . . . hello. My name is Conor.”

“Wow-whoa.”

“I guess we'll walk around you now.” Conor shuffled to the left.

Dormath took Conor's sleeve in his teeth and rumbled like distant thunder.