Texting the Underworld (15 page)

“This dog won't let us get by,” Glennie whispered, clutching Grump's arm.

Conor tried to tug his sleeve out of Dormath's teeth, but the giant dog wouldn't let go. “Ashling. Some help here?”

Ashling confronted the tall figure in black, who continued to type. “Madam Cailleach, these humans would petition the Lady for their family's safety. May they pass?”

“They live.” It was a ragged, frosty voice, the kind you'd hear behind you on a moonless winter night, and when you whipped around there'd be no one there.
Tap-tap-tap
went the Cailleach's fingers.

“Yes, madam. They would challenge the Three, as is anyone's right.”

“The living are not permitted here.” The voice froze into Conor's bones. Glennie, shivering, snuggled close to Grump for what little warmth an old man might generate.

“Nergal brings the living sometimes,” Ashling said.

“You are not Nergal.”

“They are heroes. Heroes are permitted anywhere.”

“Heroes?” Glennie whispered. “Us?”

It was a ludicrous thought, but Conor straightened his shoulders anyway. It wasn't like they could go back up the tunnel and huddle on the rocks, waiting to be rescued. The only way was forward.

Behind him, something clopped around the corner and came to a halt. Something else snorted. “We have to get out of here or we'll get squished,” Glennie said.

“Come to me, boy,” the Cailleach's frosty voice said. She didn't stop typing.

“Will the dog let me?” Conor asked. Dormath had dropped his sleeve, but didn't look any friendlier.

“Try, and find out,” the Cailleach said.

Conor tried to sidle past the dog, who moved to block his path.

“Madam Cailleach,” Ashling said. “Can you not control your dog?”

“No,” the Cailleach said, typing.

“How is this boy to approach if Master Dormath won't let him?”

“Come to me, boy.”

“Oh, this is stupid.” Glennie pulled Grump closer to the giant dog. “Listen, that lady wants us to go see her, so you LET US PAST, you big, hairy . . . soul-sucking demon warrior.” Fists on hips, she launched the Glennie scowl, terror of the playground.

Dormath loomed over Glennie, a rumbling deep in his throat. He opened his mouth slightly and drooled on her foot. Glennie kept the scowl going, but she also whimpered.

The tunnel went quiet except for the tapping of the Cailleach's fingers and an occasional snort or snuffle from the annoyed animals backing up behind them.

The Cailleach's chill voice broke the silence. “What is a soul-sucking demon warrior?”

“Perhaps it is the daemonosaurus,” Ashling said. “The daemonosaurus was a small, meat-eating dinosaur active 205 million years ago.”

“I know about dinosaurs,” the Cailleach said. “Messy creatures.” The veiled head turned toward Conor and Glennie. “I see no resemblance in Dormath.”

Dormath's dreadful breath stirred the hair at Conor's temple.

Conor's jacket pocket played the
Star Wars
movie theme:
Da DAH da da da DAH dah.
“You gotta be kidding me,” he muttered.

Dormath growled.

“Is that your phone?” Glennie whispered.

Dormath sniffed at Conor's pocket. He growled again.

“Um
.
” Conor looked deep into Dormath's eyes. “I'm going to unzip my pocket and get something out.” Dormath looked deep into Conor's eyes and rumbled. “Okay?” Dormath rumbled some more.

“Here I go, then.” Moving like a glacier, Conor eased the zipper down, pulled out his phone, flipped it open.

Dormath jumped backward.

Howzt goin? U OK?

“Wow.” Glennie peeked around his shoulder. “You got a signal all the way down here?”

Dormath found his courage and advanced, licking his chops.

Conor texted:
OK but bad dog here. Wut do?

Dormath sniffed at the cell phone.

Dn't lok in eyz. Scrtch chin.

“You gotta be kidding me.”
I already looked into his eyes. What now?

“Scratch his chin or yours?” Glennie whispered.

Dormath sniffed at his mouth. “Oh my god.” Conor tried not to move his lips. “What's he doing? What's he doing?”

“He has not smelled living breath,” the Cailleach said, “for many eons.”

Not meaning to, Conor gazed right into Dormath's unblinking black eyes. He could see his reflection. The dog showed his teeth and rumbled.

Nothing to lose,
Conor thought. Slowly—horribly, painfully, glacially slowly—he raised his hand to the dog's chin. He gave it a little scratch.

Dormath growled, right in his face.

“Nice doggy,” Glennie said. Conor scratched a little harder.

Dormath lowered his head and butted it gently against Conor's chest. Conor raised his other hand and scratched the monster's ear. Dormath heaved a great doggy sigh.

“Aw,” Glennie said. “He's kinda cute.”

“Boy,” the Cailleach said, still typing. “Come to me.”

Dormath put his chin on Conor's shoulder and snuffled in his ear while Conor texted:
All gd. Thx.
When he started toward the Cailleach, the dog followed, chin still on his shoulder, drool running down his neck.

“Um,” Conor said to the Cailleach.

“Be off, Dormath,” the Cailleach said. Instantly, the dog lifted his chin and trotted off to a wall niche filled with straw, where he circled three times and lay down.

“You could control Dormath the whole time!” Ashling said to the Cailleach. “You said you couldn't.”

“Cleanse that tone from your voice, girl,” the Cailleach said.
Tap-tap-tap
.

“Was that some kind of test?”

“It is not your place to ask, girl.”

“Stop calling me ‘girl.' I'm at least sixteen hundred years old.”

“I formed with the earth. I count my years in millions.”

“Excuse me,” Conor said. “Aren't we supposed to be hurrying?”

Ashling pulled the veil back from the archway, revealing a massive cavern of flickering lights and moving shapes. “Come in,” she said.

“Hold.” The Cailleach made a sharp gesture toward Ashling with what Conor could only figure was her arm under her black draperies. The veil in the archway glowed briefly. Ashling gave a cry and dropped it as if it burned her. The archway went pitch black. “I told you, the living are not permitted.”

“And I told you, they would challenge the Three.”

The Cailleach wasn't typing anymore. Her black-draped head inclined toward Conor. He strained for a hint of human features behind the veil. There was a bump, which he assumed must be her nose.

“What will you give me, boy, to achieve your goal?” the frosty voice said.

“I . . .” Conor felt in his jacket pocket. A stick of gum. A stubby pencil. Javier's plastic Iron Man action figure. The spare house key, which he should have hung back on the hook.

His cell phone. But he might need that. “I don't have anything you'd like. Tell me what you want and I'll try to get it.”

“Fruity Fooler?” Glennie whispered.

“They won't exist anymore,” Ashling said.

Sure enough, Glennie shoved her hand into her pocket and brought out an empty package. “Rats,” she said.

“You have what I want,” the Cailleach said, unhooking the strap from around her neck and passing her laptop to Ashling. “See how steam comes from your face. You breathe. You are warm. I never experience warmth.”

She held out an arm. The draperies fell away, revealing what probably was a hand. It was more like a chicken foot Grump had tried to make Conor eat at Mulcahey's China Café.

The Cailleach held it out to Conor, unmoving.

“What am I supposed to do?” He hated the way his voice piped, like a scared little kid.

The Cailleach gave an annoyed
huff,
making her veil poof out. “Take my hand, boy.” The fingers made a grasping motion, crablike, too spidery for Conor's taste.

“What will happen to me if I touch you?”

“Try, and find out,” the Cailleach said.

“Let me do it.” Grump shuffled forward, Glennie at his side.

“Not you, old man,” the Cailleach said. “You are nearly as cold as I.”

The hand was waiting.

Conor glanced at Ashling, who shook her head. “I don't know what will happen, Conor-boy.”

Conor shut his eyes and reached out. He felt the chicken hand grip his.

It wasn't too bad at first. But as the crone's grip tightened, a chill seeped into Conor's bones and up his arm, across his shoulders, down his back.

But it wasn't cold seeping in . . . It was warmth seeping out. Conor felt he was being drained of heat as a vampire drains blood, leaving him exposed to the cold of the tunnel, of the world, of the universe.

“Oh!” Glennie cried. “He's turning blue!”

“Let him go!” Grump was pulling at Conor's shoulders. “Conor! Let go!”

He couldn't let go. He couldn't move anything, couldn't even open his eyes. His feet had frozen to the tunnel floor. He imagined thick frost spreading all over his body, chilling him into an ice boy, a statue, a former person now dead and gone.

“Ahhhhh.” The Cailleach sighed. “Ahhhh, like the beginning of me. Ah, the bliss, the life, the light, the warmth.”

“Stop it!” Ashling said. “This is not right!” He could feel her tugging on his arm, trying to break the connection between him and the crone. He wanted to tell her it was too late. This connection was permanent; he was here forever, feeding the Cailleach with his human warmth until the universe folded in on itself and died.

“Cailleach.” A new voice, a deeper one. “You must let this boy go. His life is not for you.”

“No,” the Cailleach said. “I have earned this.” The cold intensified—how was that possible? Conor imagined himself bursting into shards of sparkling ice.

“Cailleach,” the voice said. “Obey, or I will fetch the Lady.”

“You are not my master.”

“I am if I choose to be.”

“Try, and find out!” the Cailleach shrieked.

“Large animals are here. And dead humans. You must return to your task.”

“I have done nothing but my task for millennium after millennium. I deserve a time of warmth.”

“You wouldn't like warmth. It's not in your nature.”

“I'll be the judge of that.” The Cailleach's voice wavered. Conor's toes felt warmer. Was it his imagination?

“You chose your fate,” the deep voice said. “Honor your choices.”

The Cailleach gave a little sob. Her hand slightly loosened its grip on Conor's.

“Besides, the warmth is making you smell funny,” the deep voice added.

That was true. It was like something had rotted in the back of the refrigerator.

“I suspect,” the deep voice said, “that you will melt into a greasy spot on the floor if you keep this up.”

His hand was free. Conor collapsed onto the floor of the tunnel. Warmth seeped through him, starting at his feet. Its return made him shiver and shudder. Glennie brushed aside a newly arrived tribe of cockroaches and knelt to put her arms around him, which helped a lot.

He looked up, hoping to see the owner of the deep voice, but he was too late. Whoever it was had exited through the veil over the archway. It was still swinging.

“Who was that?” he asked Ashling.

“Nergal. Babylonian lord of the dead.”

“Babylonian,” Grump said. “For cripes' sake.”

The Cailleach had her laptop strap back around her neck, her veiled head bent over her keyboard. “I don't know how to register you,” she said peevishly. “There is no line for live humans.”

Ashling craned her neck to look at the screen. “There's a blank space right here.” She pointed. “You can make your own line—” But then she twitched and leaned in closer. “Holy macaroni. Move the screen down.” She read, lips moving, then looked up at Conor, eyes round and horrified.

What's the problem?
he thought, but then it hit him.
She saw who the Death is.

“Allowing them in is very irregular,” the Cailleach said. “Nergal will not know where to file my report.”

“Yes, yes he will.” But Ashling wasn't paying attention. She was fumbling for her comb.

“He'll print this page out and pin it up on his wall until he finds a place for it. It's no system, no system at all. It will break down completely one of these years.” She tapped some keys. “Names and ancestry?”

Grump took over. He told the Cailleach their names and ages, then settled into a recitation of their forebears, on his side, anyway. He'd gone back six generations when the Cailleach raised her hand. “Enough. We shall trace you from here.”

During Grump's recitation a camel arrived, along with the men in long robes who'd been huddling outside the narrow portal. The Cailleach resumed her incessant
tap-tap-tap
. The cockroaches headed for the curtain.