The Spindlers (19 page)

“If you fail to reach your brother,” the queen said, “it will not just be his soul that belongs to us.”

More laughter from the spindlers. And now Liza felt the weight of something else all around her: It was their hunger, their slurping, endless hunger. She could feel it pulling at her like an underwater current from all sides.

“It will be your soul too,” the queen said, as the spindlers' laughter swelled.

After that Liza could do nothing but reach out, put her hand on the rusted door handle, and pull.

T
he room was a bare, circular chamber, very brightly lit. For a minute Liza stood blinking, unused to such an unyielding brightness.

The first thing she noticed were the lightbulbs in the ceiling.

She wondered where the spindlers had gotten them, and where the wires for the electricity ran to, and pictured some poor family Above whose bills were always too high at the end of the month, and the father who would yell at the children about where all that power went—when really, of course, it was the spindlers that were the whole problem.

The second thing she noticed, after the lights, were the monsters.

And at that point, Liza stopped breathing.

On her left was some kind of a dog—except instead of having one head, it had three, and instead of having a normal tail, it had the tail of a scorpion.

On her right was a thing that Liza did not even have words for: like an octopus, except that it had hundreds of tentacles covered with glittering, razor-sharp spikes, and instead of a large, bulbous body it had a very small, narrow one, tapering to a pointed head and dominated by an overlarge single eye. The eye was turned to Liza and was staring at her.

Instinctively Liza drew back against the door. Except the door was not there anymore: Under her fingers she felt only rough stone. There was no longer any way out. She had no choice but to go forward.

The three-headed dog climbed to its feet and began to growl. Saliva dripped from its three sets of fangs and pattered onto the rock floor beneath its massive body.

The octopus-thing hefted a dozen of its tentacles into the air. Its spikes grated against the stone as it moved, leaving tiny, razor-thin indentations in their wake.

Liza's legs began to shake. She felt as though her whole body had turned into a wobble. But she forced herself to take a single step forward, and then another one. Perhaps, she reasoned, if she stayed in the very center of the room—perhaps she could somehow move very fast, and squeeze between them—perhaps they were less dangerous than they looked, and wouldn't attack....

But no sooner had she taken her third step than suddenly the dog sprang and the octopus struck out with its spikes. Liza saw teeth and sharp, whipping legs cutting through the air toward her and fell backward, screaming.

Then, just as suddenly, the three-headed dog was jerked sharply backward and the octopus's tentacles carved a harmless arc in the air, just a few inches from Liza's skin.

Liza stood up cautiously, frowning. Now she saw something she hadn't noticed earlier. The three-headed dog had a collar around its neck, and the collar was attached to a thick iron chain that connected to a rusted stake driven into the ground. The octopus, too, was constrained: A metal ring was clamped tight around its narrow body, rooting it firmly in place.

That was why the dog had been jerked backward, and the octopus's tentacles had not reached her, and why the monsters did not merely rush at her as she stood by the place where the door had been.

They couldn't.

The three-headed dog continued to growl at her, and the octopus continued to wave its glittering, spike-covered tentacles threateningly, and Liza tried to think.

Thanks to the bright light in the chamber, she could make out the exact dimensions of the two monsters' restricted spaces. Over time, the octopus had been wearing away the rock, the way that a sculptor chisels into stone.

The dog's enclosure was slightly harder to see; but when Liza peered closely, she could make out another broad circle, absolutely clear of loose stones and bits of rock, gravel that had over time been kicked and swept away by the dog's endless pacing.

Two circles: and only three inches of space between them. It reminded Liza of the Venn diagrams she had had to study in art class, when she learned that by blending yellow and blue you could make green. Except that these circles were not quite touching.

Still, there was not enough space for a person to pass through. If she wished to avoid the octopus, she would have to step in reach of the three-headed dog. If she wished to avoid the three-headed dog, she would have to go within reach of the tentacles.

Of course
, Liza thought. Despite her fear, she felt a rush of satisfaction. What had the queen said?
I, of course, have always liked tests, hurdles, riddles, puzzles, traps, and snares
. Of course it could not have been as simple as waltzing through three rooms. Of course there were bound to be tests and trials and tricks. There always were. Nothing was ever easy.

Perhaps, Liza thought, she could go
over
the two monsters …? But she saw quickly that this was impossible. The walls were too slick for her to climb; there were no toe- or footholds to speak of.

But maybe the monsters were not as bad as they seemed. Maybe they only
looked
fearsome; maybe they were actually tame, like Mr. Peer's little mutt, who was always barking and growling at every passing car but was actually the gentlest dog you could imagine. You only had to hold out your hand and he would come and nuzzle you like a long-lost friend.

The idea filled Liza with renewed hope. Next to her was a pile of stones, roughly the size of softballs but much heavier; she hefted one up and, to test her theory, rolled it toward the three-headed dog.

“Come on, little puppy,” she crooned, thinking that might help. “Play nice with the ball.”

The three-headed dog sprang, snarling. As it leapt, its chain rattled terribly and the metal stake rooting the monster in place wobbled and shook, so that for one horrible second Liza thought it would be lifted clear out of the ground, and the three-headed dog would be free. It landed with its heavy paws around the stone, and the left-most head chomped right through the softball-size rock, sending gravel showering from its jaws, as though the stone was as thin as cardboard.

Liza swallowed. Tiny pebbles—now coated in the dog's greenish saliva—bounced back toward her feet.

“Now it's your turn, Mr. Octopus,” she said. For some reason, speaking out loud made her feel better. It was like peering into a dark closet and announcing loudly to the monsters,
I know you're there, so don't even think about trying to jump out at me
. When you spoke to them directly, they never did. She released another stone in the octopus's direction, as though bowling.

Instantly the octopus shot out one of its tentacles, like a baseball player connecting hard with a fastball. The stone shattered on impact and went zinging into a thousand pieces all around the cavern. Liza ducked instinctively, covering her face, and felt a rush of air around her, like a dozen bullets had just zoomed past her.

There was a yelp and a roar; the rattle of a chain. Then a high, shrill scream. She looked up and saw that the three-headed dog was covered in welts where pieces of the shattered stone had hit it. Furious, the dog had gone for the octopus. It was baring all its enormous teeth, scorpion tail lashing, straining at the chain that kept it only an inch from the octopus's tentacles.

The octopus, in turn, was thrusting furiously with its tentacles, trying to strike out at the enraged animal, but it, too, could not reach, and it let out a howl of frustration every time one of its tentacles clanged harmlessly to the ground. Liza could see hatred burning in its single eye.

And it gave her an idea.

There were three heavy stones remaining. Liza picked up the first rock—the largest, heaviest one—in her right hand.

It is very, very difficult to step closer to an enraged dog; it is even harder to step closer to an enraged dog with three enraged heads; and it is almost impossible to step closer when you must also go closer to a many-tentacled monster that is shrieking and lashing with huge metal spikes. Liza forced her legs forward, feeling as though she was walking a tightrope and in danger of falling off.

As she neared the three-headed dog, its right head whipped in her direction and began snarling at her and baring its teeth, although thankfully its other heads remained fixed in the octopus's direction.

She stopped a few inches short of the faint line that marked the dog's circular enclosure. She was close enough that she could smell its foul breath. She could feel, too, the tentacles cutting the air behind her, whipping just a few short inches from her, and she could not help but imagine the solid rock, chomped or shattered into bits. It made her think of what the queen had done to the moribat.

“Focus,” Liza said to herself. She lifted the stone like a bowler at the end of the alley, gripping it so tightly her knuckles turned white.

That was what Anna would tell her to do, what Anna had always told her to do when they played games of Pinecone Bowling. That was what she would do; she would pretend she was playing Pinecone Bowling at home, on the lawn, with Patrick and Anna.

Liza dropped quickly into a crouch and swung the rock forward forcefully, aiming for the metal stake in the ground just behind the dog's scorpion tail. The rock missed the stake by half an inch and bounced harmlessly, with a hollow thud, off the chamber's wall. The noise made yet another head swivel in her direction.

Liza felt her mouth go dry as dust.

That's okay
, she imagined Anna saying.
You can try again
.

Liza lifted the second rock from its pile with a trembling hand. This one was slightly smaller than the last one.

Once again, she dropped into a kind of bowler's lunge, shooting the rock forward. It sped straight toward the metal stake and connected with a clang; Liza watched in both terror and exhilaration as the metal stake shuddered and tipped.

For a second the dog was given an extra inch of space on its chain, and it clawed forward, swiping at Liza and the octopus simultaneously, so Liza had to draw quickly back. Then the stake righted itself and the dog was jerked backward again, leaving claw marks etched in the dark rock and letting off a howl of frustration.

By this time all three heads were turned toward Liza, and the three-headed dog began to pace back and forth in its small circle, tail lashing furiously behind it. The octopus, too, had become increasingly agitated. All its hundreds of tentacles were raised now, metal spikes gleaming in the harsh light of the chamber. It reminded Liza of a stark black tree, covered all over with metal icicles.

Liza had only one rock remaining: the smallest and lightest rock, her very last chance.

She once again inched forward, to the very edge of the line that had been drawn faintly against the rock floor by the three-headed dog's endless pacing. She took a deep breath. She thought of Patrick.

She dropped into a crouch and released the rock with as much force as she could …

… and watched it skitter harmlessly past its mark, missing the metal stake by a good six inches.