Texting the Underworld (18 page)

He hardened his heart. “I'm not going to.”

Nergal was ushering Grump and Glennie to their chairs. “She's made up her mind about the Birds,” he said to Grump. “You may not like it. I may not like it. But there it is.” Nergal's broad face was expressionless.

“Thank you, Nergal.” The Lady stretched her arms over her head. “That will be all.”

“I believe I will stay,” Nergal said.

On the floor of the cavern, the Yoruba guide, Oya, ushered her Dear Departed into a roped enclosure beside the platform. Oya tugged at the Lady's robe. The Lady rolled her eyes in annoyance, but turned around.

“This one wishes to speak with you, my lady,” Oya said. The woman glanced up at the Lady and cried out, clinging to Oya's arm. Conor crept forward to see what was happening.

He almost swallowed his tongue. The Lady's apple cheeks had darkened, and her blue eyes had gone brown, changing shape. Her nose lengthened. Her white hair shortened. She was still dressed in white, but now she was a beaming African grandmother.

Nergal nudged him with his staff. “You wish to face the Birds? Follow me.”

The Lady kept her gaze on Oya's Dear Departed. “I'll be right along. Don't start without me.”

“I'm coming, too,” Ashling announced.

“I thought you didn't want to watch me die.” Conor sounded sulky even to his own ears.

“Knowing is better than not knowing.”

“You may not help him,” Nergal said.

“Why would I help him?” Ashling gave a short, brittle laugh. “If he wins, I lose.”

“Awesome.” Nergal patted her shoulder and paced off on his lion feet, heading for a small, curtained doorway at the back of the platform. Ashling followed.

Grump huddled in his fancy chair, Glennie holding his good hand. Conor went to them. “I'll be okay.” He handed Grump his outer clothing and a couple of sweaters. Taking his cell phone out of his jacket, he put it in the back pocket of his jeans.

“I can't believe you're doing this,” Glennie said.

Grump's eyes were watery. “Don't be a hero, kiddo. It's my time to go, not yours.”

“It's nobody's time,” Conor said. “You got rockets to build.”

Grump gave a tiny
huff,
the closest he could get to a laugh. “I built enough of 'em.”

Oya's old African woman burst into tears. Oya's arm was around her as they rejoined the crowd. The Lady moved toward Conor, changing back into the pink-cheeked granny as she came.

“What did you do to that woman?” Glennie asked.

“Tut-tut, dear. I didn't do a thing. She wanted to wait and be reborn with her husband. But that's so
silly,
of course I can't control that. He's not far behind her, so they'll be together anyway. They just won't know it. Come along, Declan dear. Time to meet the Birds.”

Conor hugged Grump—carefully, because of the arm and the ribs. He also hugged Glennie. She even hugged back.

“Do the right thing, kiddo,” Grump said.

“Don't wimp out,” said Glennie.

Conor and the Lady walked across the smooth black stone together. “Why do I get to know?” Conor asked.

“Know what, dear?”

“Who I used to be. That I used to be
any
one.”

“Because you asked to face the Three. That puts you in a whole new category.”

“What category?”

“Heroes, dear. Didn't you know?”

“Are we under the Mid-Atlantic Ridge?”

She pushed aside the curtain on the door. Behind it was a smaller cave, lighted by a single energy-efficient bulb hanging from the ceiling.

The Lady saw Conor looking at it. “Torches are
so
much more dramatic, but in a small space like this they're too smoky. The Birds kept getting the croup.”

There they were, the three Birds perched on a roost thirty feet away. They were huge, almost as tall as Conor, plump and glossy, with cruelly curved bills. The bird on the left had a purple bill, the one on the right was white-billed. On the center perch was a bird with a golden bill, which glistened in the faint electric light.

The Birds' eyes glittered at him as he approached, making him feel he wasn't dressed properly or had a booger hanging out of his nose. But they had no right to be superior—the floor under the roost was slimy white with droppings. As Conor watched, the bird on the left added to the pile.

“I thought creatures didn't poop in here,” Conor said.

“The dead ones don't,” the Lady said. “These are alive.”

Ashling and Nergal stood off to one side, Ashling furiously combing her hair. Opposite them, against the wall, were three huge bowls carved out of the rock, their contents squirming. Conor averted his gaze, hoping they wouldn't be involved in whatever was about to happen to him.

He had a bad feeling they would be.

Glennie was yelling outside. Something made a swishing noise behind him. He whirled around to see a Burmese python the length of a city bus oozing through the door, a small snowy white rabbit on its back.

“Oh drat,” the Lady said. “Anubis got distracted again.” A porcupine waddled in and started snuffling around the edge of the cave. “Ignore them, dear. They're dead and won't hurt you.”

She pushed him toward the Birds, who shuffled on their perch, leaning forward, intent.

“Allow me to introduce you,” the Lady said. “This fellow on the left with the purple bill is Crakk, who sings the dead back to life. On the right is kindly white-billed Graw, whose song lulls the living into the sleep of death. And this beauty with the golden bill—ah, she is the one you want to please. She is Kawla, who conveys the power over life and death.” The Lady bowed to Kawla, who inclined her head majestically.

“Uh, hullo,” Conor said. “Pleased to meet you.”

Crakk opened and shut his bill with a snap, then made a noise like a rusty hinge. The Birds eyed Conor expectantly.

“I . . . I don't understand you.” He appealed to the Lady. “What am I supposed to do?”

“You feed them, silly.” And, sure enough, the Lady led him to the three bowls with writhing creatures.

One had moths in it, their wings folded, walking all over one another. The second had earthworms, twisting like snakes but for some reason not scary at all.

The third was a different story. Conor had watched enough Saturday morning cartoons to predict what that one had to be.
You always have to face your worst fears.

And he was right.

It was, of course, spiders.

“Those spiders are really dead, of course,” Conor said.

“Oh dear no,” the Lady said. “I can't feed dead food to live birds, now can I?”

Conor swallowed and raised himself on tiptoe so he could peek into the stone bowl without getting any closer. All kinds of spiders were in there—Conor was pretty sure he saw black widows. Certainly tarantulas.

The Lady was talking. “There are tarantulas, of course. Black widows, and those smaller black and red ones that aren't black widows—I forget what they're called, but they're every bit as poisonous. There's an Australian funnel-web spider, nasty little cuss. Oh, and that biggish one, the hairy brown one there, that's a Brazilian wandering spider—you'd be dead in two hours.” She tittered.

Conor backed up three steps. It was all he could do not to run out of the cave and get Grump.

“Now,” the Lady continued, “all you have to do is pick the right food for our dear Kawla and her lovely golden bill, and she will grant you her power. Temporarily, of course.”

“I just guess?” It didn't seem fair.

“An
educated
guess, dear. Think about what each bird would want to eat, considering its powers.”

“What if I choose wrong?”

“Well, dear, the bird who wants the food you offer will take it. And that bird will use its power—sing something to life, for example, or sing it to death.” She patted his shoulder. “The creature being sung to death would be you, of course.”

Conor swallowed hard and told himself that being sung to death wouldn't be so horrible.

Think.
What would please a bird with the power of life and death? He so wanted the right food to be the earthworms or the moths. He tried to remember biology class. What did he know about moths?

Start as a caterpillar, end as a moth. First one thing, then the other. Like being dead first, then alive? Alive, then dead? Has to be one of the other two birds then.
So not the moth.

And earthworms?
They eat organic matter in the soil and expel dirt. They convert one thing to another? So that's one of the other birds, too.

I knew it. I have to face my worst fear.
Like seven out of ten episodes of
Robot Destiny
.

He couldn't think of a reason why a spider would appeal to a bird with the power of life and death. Still, he knew what he had to do. The question was, how to survive it?

If only Javier were here. He had badges in insect observation, first aid, and bird study. Surely one of them would have provided the answers.

“You don't have forever, dear,” the Lady said. “Unlike the rest of us.”

A tarantula draped a leg out of the bowl, started to pull itself up. The Lady flicked it back down. Conor imagined thrusting his hand into that bowl, with all those horrible, unpredictable wiggly legs and bodies. Getting bitten to death was almost beside the point.

He heard himself say, “Can I phone a friend?”

“Can you do what to a friend, dear?”

“Phone him. Can I phone a friend?”

The Lady wrinkled her brow. “Phone?”

Conor was surprised someone surrounded by laptop computers didn't know about phones. He plucked his cell phone out of his back pocket to show her. “See? I can type a message or I can talk to somebody. I may not get a signal underground, though.”

“We're not underground in the strictest sense.” Nergal's deep voice, right behind him. “The term
Underworld
is misleading. Technically, we're beside your world, not under it.”

Beside
it? What the heck did that mean? “Where would I be on a map?” Conor's own voice sounded far away to him.

“You wouldn't be.”

“Wouldn't be . . . ?”

“On a map.”

I'm off the map.
Conor's knees buckled. Nergal's strong arm kept him from falling on the floor.

“Where did you think you were, boy? Dude, I mean.” Nergal peered into Conor's face. “Do you want to back out of this? Shall I get your grandfather?”

Conor shook his head.
Okay. Okay. I'm off the map. At least I have a cell phone.
“So can I call?” he asked the Lady. He wanted to hear Javier's voice, know he was talking to someone in Boston, Massachusetts, even if that person was on the wrong side of the West Fourth Street Bridge.

“I don't know. Nergal, can he?”

“I'm sure he can. We even get wireless sometimes.”

“We get what?” The Lady looked stunned.

Nergal gave a brief smile. “There's a thing called the Internet. You wouldn't like it.”

Conor's phone had three bars . . . good enough.

“Is that a cell phone? I've heard of them,” Nergal said. “Never seen one, though.”

“I thought he wasn't supposed to get help from anyone,” Ashling piped up from the background.
Guess she's changed her mind about wanting to watch me die,
Conor thought bitterly.

Nergal hesitated, eyeing the cell phone as if it were an emerald. “My lady, I think in this one instance . . .”

“Oh, let him do it,” the Lady said. “I want to see what happens.”

There wasn't time to text back and forth. Conor texted,
Call me.
Then he waited.

And waited.

The tarantula tried to get out of the stone bowl again, along with a Brazilian wandering spider. The Brazilian spider actually made it to the floor before Conor whimpered and pointed. The Lady put it back, but not before stroking it with her finger.

Conor's phone intoned “
I-ex-ist-to-serve
” like the robot in his favorite cartoon
.
“Hello?”

“Where are you?” Javier whispered.

“The Other Land, which I guess is also the Underworld. Sort of. Where are you?”

“In the hospital bed. It's been an hour.”

“You're kidding.” Conor looked at Nergal. “Is there something weird about the time in this place?”

“Of course there is. Sometimes it's slower. But other times it speeds up or goes backward. Don't count on it one way or the other.”

Conor got back on the phone. “I guess time's weird here. It feels to me like I've been away for days.”

“So what's it like?”

“Uh . . . cool. Really cool. But I can't talk right now. I'm phoning a friend, and you're the friend.”

Javier-silence, then: “You're kidding, right?”

“No, really. I need help.”

“Hang on. Someone's coming.”

Conor heard a woman talking, but he couldn't understand what she was saying. Javier snored. The visitor talked on and on and on. Conor heard what had to be a loud fart. Somebody giggled, and then the background chatter died.

“I'm back,” Javier whispered.

“Was that Angela Timulty? Was she talking to you?”

“Guy in the other bed. They're having trouble waking him up, so she keeps coming in and talking to him. She actually seems pretty nice.”

“You farted, didn't you.”

Javier-silence.

Conor pressed on. “Listen, Javier, you know all about spiders, right? Like, if I had to pick one up.”

“Pick one up? YOU?”

“I don't have time to explain. There's a bowl full of them. There's tarantulas, black widows, and some other black and red ones, and Australian funnel something-or-others. Plus some Brazilian thing.”

“Brazilian wandering spider,” the Lady said.

“If it's a Brazilian wandering spider,” Javier said, “don't go near that one, especially if it stands up on its hind legs. That means it's going to attack. You're best off with a tarantula. Their bite hurts but they aren't as poisonous as the others. People have them as pets.”

Conor felt like something was crawling down his back, even though he knew there was nothing there. Most likely.

“Let it crawl onto the back of your hand,” Javier said. “Move slowly and carefully, and it may not even care. No sudden movements. Like, don't shudder.”

Conor shuddered.

“Want me to stay on the phone?” Javier asked.

“No, thanks. I can concentrate better alone.” He went to flip his phone shut, then put it back on his ear. “Hey, Javier? Javier. Listen. Thanks.”

“No problem. Call if you need something else. I'll be here.”

When Conor flipped the phone shut, the Lady put out her hand for it. “I want to see that. You were talking to someone back in the World? Tell me, how is that possible?”

Conor hesitated, then gave her the phone. “I think I'm going to do this spider thing right now.”

“Of course.” The Lady poked a button on the phone's number pad. Then she poked some more.
Dah-DAH-da-da-da-DAH-dah.
“Ooooo!” she squealed.

“Good luck,” Nergal said to Conor, and ushered the Lady back to where Ashling stood, comb tangled in hair.

Conor approached the bowl, keeping a safe distance. The tarantula had two legs dangling over the top now. As he waited for it to get farther out, a Brazilian spider and several of the black ones toppled over the edge and onto the floor. Conor kept an eye on them, ready to dart away if they came near him. The black spiders headed for the wall, but the Brazilian spider scuttled into the shadow of its bowl and sat there, blending in with the surroundings.

Conor tried to memorize where it was.

Crakk made another rusty-hinge noise. “Don't waste time, Conor-boy.” Ashling's voice was shaking.

“Hush,” Nergal said. “You promised not to interfere.”

“Wha-a-at?” Ashling sounded incensed. “But you just let him ask his friend—”

“Hush.”

What does she care anyways?
Conor thought.

The tarantula positioned the front of its body on the rim of the bowl. Conor tried to pull his sleeve all the way over his hand, but it wouldn't reach far enough.

He took one step forward.

The Brazilian wandering spider stood up on its hind legs.

Conor decided to see if he could reach the tarantula from where he was.

The tarantula waggled its front legs, deciding where to go next. Conor took a deep breath, bent over practically double, and thrust the back of his hand toward those questing legs. He felt he could topple any second.

What would the Brazilian spider do if he fell over? Right now it was swaying from side to side, waving its front legs in a threatening manner. Not good.

The tarantula's legs found Conor's hand, poked at it, exploring.

Conor did not scream. He also did not breathe.

The tarantula moved forward, feeling its way. Two legs. Four. Six.

Eight. The spider was on his hand, surprisingly heavy.

Conor straightened, took a step back, arm outstretched. He couldn't see the Brazilian spider anymore—was it moving?
Don't think about it. Keep walking.

He pivoted on one foot, trying to stay smooth. The tarantula shivered. Was it scared? Would it bite? One foot forward, then the other foot, first foot, second foot, first foot . . . He made his way to the ravens' roost.

“Gah!” the Lady exclaimed. The theme song for the Silly Mustache Brothers game blasted out of Conor's cell phone.
Boop-boop-boop-da-da-da-da-doodly-doot-doot . . .

Conor froze. But the spider wasn't bothered by the distraction. In fact, it wanted to explore: Its front legs felt around Conor's wrist, his cuff. It started walking. It got confident and moved up to his elbow. Then his shoulder. Something sharp and hairy prodded his neck. Several sharp somethings, very hairy.

Oh god it's going down my shirt I know it is I know it is . . .

It didn't. It climbed up his neck, tickled his ear. Perched on his forehead.

“Keep walking, boy,” Nergal said.

“What are these little men
doing
?” said the Lady.
Boop-boop-boop . . .

One foot, other foot, first foot, second foot . . . The Birds leaned forward, watching him. Conor stepped close to the roost so the golden-billed bird could reach the tarantula on his forehead. He hoped she grabbed it quickly.

He shut his eyes. He waited.

Something hit him on the forehead. The tarantula's weight was gone.

He opened his eyes. Kawla, the golden-billed raven, stared down at him, unmoving.

Crakk, however, had a tarantula's leg hanging out of his purple beak. He tilted his head back and swallowed what was left of the spider.

“Wrong choice, boy,” Nergal said. “Many spiders die to continue their species, creating life from death just like Crakk. Now he will make something dead come back to life.”

The Lady said nothing, intent on Conor's cell phone.
Boop-boop-boop . . .

Crakk's eyes glittered at Conor. He opened his purple beak, and . . . well, Conor wasn't sure he'd classify what came out as a song. It was a series of croaks and cat-mews, rising into a screech, then lowering into a whine. It lasted about a minute. Conor could see how it might wake the dead.