The Heart of Glass (6 page)

I hope Marcus comes soon,
she thought.
I really don’t want to wait here too long. Still, he’s bound to think I’m very,
very
adventurous to come to such a scary place. Now, where shall I wait? I think . . . yes, I think I’ll keep the pillars in sight.

Marigold was pleased to find a shady half circle of birch trees; the grass beneath was soft and green and dotted with daisies, and she decided this would be an ideal setting for a romantic rescue. She pulled the pony to a halt, and after a few nervous glances this way and that, he began to graze. Marigold jumped out of the cart feeling that all was going according to plan. She had taken the precaution of bringing several satin and velvet cushions with her, and she arranged these carefully under the trees. “Three for me, and two for Marcus,” she said, and patted them into place; after a moment’s thought, she rearranged them rather closer together.

Pleased with the effect, she looked around to see what else needed to be done. There were wild roses growing in the hedge on the other side of the roadway, and it occurred to her that these would make a delightful wreath. Beaming, she hurried across the road and began to help herself. A moment later a sharp thorn embedded itself in her finger, and she screamed loudly. The pony flung up his head and stared around. Marigold was too busy trying to pull the thorn out of her finger to notice, and the pony took a few tentative steps back in the direction he had come. As nobody stopped him, he took a few more — and Marigold looked up.

“No!”
she shrieked. “NO! Stay still! Don’t move!”

The pony was used to Fedora coaxing him and petting him and telling him what a sweet, dear pony he was. He was not used to being shouted at, and he wasn’t at all sure that he liked it. In fact, when he came to think about it, there wasn’t much about the expedition so far that he
had
liked. No one had told him what a clever pony he was, no one had offered him oats or apples or a bucket of water, and there had been that dreadful caterwauling. As Marigold flung down her roses and rushed toward him, he thought of the rack of sweet-smelling hay in his stable and the handfuls of crunchy apples that Fedora would be sure to bring him, and he made up his mind. With a shake of his mane he was away, the cart bouncing and rattling behind him as he set off up the road at a gallop.

Marigold was left standing in the middle of the track, her injured finger in her mouth. “Stupid animal,” she muttered — and then a thought popped into her mind. She had screamed. In fact, she had screamed very loudly. Surely Marcus ought to be dashing up to rescue her? Marigold frowned. Perhaps she should scream again? She stared up the track, but there was no sign of anyone. “Maybe it’s too early,” she said to herself.

She decided to give up on the roses and make a daisy chain instead, and wandered back to her cushions. Even the daisy chain was harder than she had expected, and after a few minutes she threw it down in disgust. Another ten minutes were spent in arranging herself in various different poses so she looked appealing, or sweet, or hopeful, but in the end she curled up and went to sleep.

G
racie Gillypot rubbed her eyes, then rubbed them again. The darkness was so incredibly dense that it made no difference whether her eyes were open or shut, and she began to wonder if she was real anymore. She pinched herself hard. “Ouch,” she said out loud — then caught her breath. Had she heard a noise? “Hello? Is anybody there? Can you hear me?”

There was no answer.

Gracie sighed — then jumped. She had heard a sneeze — a very small sneeze, but nevertheless a sneeze, and it was enough to make her heart leap with a wild hope. “Marlon? Alf? Is that you?”

There was a second sneeze, before a snuffly voice asked, “Did you say Marlon? Do you mean Mr. Batster?”

“Oh, I do!” Gracie clasped her hands together. “Do you know him? Could you take him a message? Oh, please, that would be so wonderful. I don’t know where I am, or how to get out of here!”

“I don’t know him,” the voice said. “I’ve just heard about him. I don’t get out much.” There was a crescendo of sneezing followed by the sound of fluttering wings. Gracie had the impression that the very small bat — if it was a bat — had sneezed itself off its perch and was having difficulty righting itself. “I’m going to have to go.” The voice was reproachful now. “You’re making me sneeze even more than usual.”

“Oh, please don’t go,” Gracie begged. “Please stay. It’s so terribly dark — and you sound like a very kind and helpful sort of”— she hesitated, then decided to risk it —“bat.”

“Do you think so?” The bat sounded surprised. “Mostly they say I’m a waste of space. Always sneezing and all. It’s not my fault, but they think it is. Never let me go flying with them, they don’t.” There was a small but heartfelt sigh. “‘You stay right here in the tunnel, Flo,’ they tell me. ‘We don’t want you grumbling and groaning and sneezing when we’re out and about. Bats aren’t meant to be noisy. You’re best off at home where you can’t be heard.’ So I’m stuck here, day in and day out, and it’s not fair. I mean, I know we’ve only just met, but you wouldn’t say I was the complaining kind, would you?”

“Erm . . . certainly not.” Gracie hesitated again. Something the bat had said had caught her attention. “Excuse me, but did you say we were in a tunnel?”

“Tunnel? Never!” Flo was indignant, but there was a clear note of alarm behind the outrage. “I never said anything of the sort! If anyone asks you, I never said anything about tunnels at all. No. No tunnels here. Not even one. I mean, that horrible Oolie creature would have me on toast if I started telling you dwarves about tunnels.” Flo subsided into a fit of sniffing and snuffling.

Gracie considered what she’d heard. If she was in a tunnel, surely she should be able to find a way out — but it was obvious that she needed to be careful when asking Flo questions. “That’s a really dreadful cold you’ve got,” she said. “Have you had it long?”

“Oh, dearie, dearie, dearie me. If I’ve been asked that once, I’ve been asked a thousand times. It’s not a cold! Understand? NOT a cold!”

Flo was now sounding angry, and Gracie bit her lip. The last thing she wanted was for the bat to fly away and leave her on her own. “I’m so sorry,” she apologized. “Erm . . . might I ask if it’s hay fever? If it is, the Ancient Crones have a wonderful potion that always cures it. One of Queen Kesta’s daughters sneezed and sneezed and sneezed all summer long, and Auntie Edna cured her with just one spoonful. If . . . if you were to show me the way out, I could ask Auntie Edna to help you. You wouldn’t need to be scared of her; I know people call her the Ancient One, and she’s in charge of the web of power, but she’s ever so kind. I promise it would work, and the crones are very fond of bats. . . .”

Gracie’s voice died away. The silence was echoing all around her, and she was certain Flo had gone. She stretched out her arms and could feel nothing. Nothing but the terrible unrelenting blackness.

“Flo?” she called. “Flo? Oh, please don’t leave me on my own!” Two large tears rolled down her cheeks, and the lump in her throat doubled in size. She fished in her pocket for a hankie and blew her nose hard before wiping her eyes and taking several deep breaths. “Come along, Gracie,” she told herself. “It could be worse.” She tried hard to think of what exactly could be worse than being stuck in a pitch-black tunnel with no idea where it led, or how to get out of it . . . and as she was thinking, she heard footsteps.

Weary, heavy, shuffling footsteps that were coming nearer. And nearer.

Gracie’s stomach flipped, then froze. “Keep calm,” she told herself. “Remember you’re a Trueheart.” She did her best, but however hard she tried, it was impossible not to wonder, “But what if whatever it is doesn’t actually
know
about Truehearts? And what if it doesn’t care? And what if it’s hungry and has teeth?” She swallowed and took another deep breath. “Hello. Who’s there?”

“’Tis Oolie, my little sweetmeat,” said an ancient and quavering voice. “’Tis Oolie, and you’ve woken me up from my long, long sleep. Never did think as anything would come falling in here ever again, but there you is — and fine and delicious you do be smelling.”

Cold shivers were running up and down Gracie’s spine, but she forced herself to answer. “I’m so sorry if I woke you. I really am. I didn’t mean to be here at all; I just sort of fell through a tree — and I’d be so very grateful if you could tell me the way out.”

“But there’s no getting out, my precious pudding.” Oolie sounded so close that Gracie jumped. “Little dwarfies that fall into Oolie’s trap don’t ever get out again.” There was a dry, dusty chuckle, and a long, bony finger poked Gracie in the ribs.

“But I’m not a dwarf,” Gracie said as boldly as she could. “I’m a girl.”

The rasping chuckle came again. “That’s what they all used to say. ‘I’m not a dwarfie — I’m a badger! I’m a little piggie! I’m a human being!’ And did Oolie ever believe them? Oh, no, no, no. Oolie can smell dwarfies, cuz dwarfies is good little creatures, and you stinks of goodness. Much too good to be a greedy girlie, you is. Sniff-sniff-sniff, Oolie goes, and she can always tell.”

Gracie twisted away from the probing finger.
Don’t show her you’re scared,
she told herself.
Stay calm. Think of . . . think of Auntie Edna.
Out loud she said, “But I AM a girl. I really truly am!”

There was a scratching noise, then the sound of something falling, and a muffled exclamation. This was followed by scuffling and much heavy and labored breathing before the scratching was repeated — and a light flared up. The contrast was so sudden and so bright that Gracie had to shut her eyes.

When she opened them, she saw that she was indeed in a tunnel, with walls of mud and closely intertwined tree roots. She had just enough time to discover that the light sprang from a tinderbox held by a hideously wrinkled old creature before it died again, and she was back in the all-enveloping darkness.

“Did . . . did you see?” she asked. “Could you see that I’m a girl? I promise you I am.”

For a moment there was no answer, only the sound of puffing and wheezing. Then came more scratching, and the light flared up again. This time Oolie managed to light the small stump of a candle that was stuck onto one of the roots. The flame flickered, wavered, and then settled, and Gracie and Oolie stared at each other.

“So you
is
a human girl,” Oolie said at last. She came very close to Gracie and sniffed at her. “But you smells good like dwarfies.” She picked at her flat nose with a black and broken nail, then sniffed again. “And there’s something else my nose is telling me. Something tingly.” She licked her lips, sniffed once more, and began to pant. “Is you . . . could you be . . . is you . . . a Trueheart?”

Gracie opened her mouth to say yes — but a tiny flicker of movement caught her eye. A small bat was hanging by one claw immediately behind Oolie, vigorously shaking its head. Gracie changed her answer into a fit of coughing and then said, with all the conviction she could manage, “I think your nose might have made a mistake, Mrs. Oolie.”

The creature gave her a suspicious look. “Is you saying you isn’t a Trueheart? Suppose I could be wrong. But tingles in the nose isn’t dwarfies, even the goodest of dwarfies . . . and it isn’t gnomies nor trolls neither.”

“Gnomes?” Gracie pounced on the chance to turn the subject away from Truehearts. “I didn’t know there were gnomes in the Five Kingdoms.”

“But we
isn’t
in the Kingdoms, is we, Miss Ignorant?” Oolie sneered. “We’s under the forests, and there’s all sorts down here in our tunnels and caverns. Take me, for instance. Half troll, half goblin, I is — strength of a troll with goblin brains — so don’t you go thinking you can trick me. And what’s more, it’s Old Troll I be, hard as glass and strong as iron.” She looked Gracie up and down, scratching thoughtfully at her balding head. “Looks to me like you’s another mixamabody. Odd, you is, and no mistaking it. Now, if you
was
a Trueheart, that’d be worth a fortune to old Oolie . . . but if I takes you down Oolie’s secret highways and byways to the King of All Trolls and you
isn’t
a Trueheart after all, then what’ll I get? Nothing. And Oolie’s had too much nothing for years and years and years. . . .”