Wuthering high: a bard academy novel (22 page)

The floor beneath his feet starts to glow, and slowly pieces of the floor start to slide open. It’s a door — a door to the vault. As I watch, Heathcliff starts walking down, through the door in the floor, down what must be stairs. He is bathed in an eerie blue glow.

I hesitate. Should I go for help? I feel like there’s no time. What if he gets away?

I make a decision to go after him, just as the door starts to close. I make it down part of the stone staircase just as the door closes above my head. The vault is dusty and cobwebbed, because naturally the answers to this mystery have to be in a creepy, dirty basement that smells like mothballs. All it lacks is some bloody handprints and it would be straight out of
The Blair Witch Project.
I mean, seriously. I’m going down here
voluntarily
?

But it’s too late to change my mind now. I don’t know how to open the door above my head. I see Heathcliff’s shadow below me and decide to follow. I’m not sure if he knows I’ve followed him or not, but he isn’t letting on if he knows.

The staircase is winding, so you can’t quite see what’s around the corner until you’re there.

At the bottom, I see an underground library the size and scope of the library above me. The blue glow is coming from lights along the walls. They’re like torches, but with blue lights. It’s like they’re all gas burners or something, except that I smell no gas. This is like no library wing I’ve ever seen. It’s more like a dungeon.

I notice for the first time the books on the shelves. They are old and unraveling just like the ones I saw in the greenhouse. This is
definitely
the vault. The one with the magic books.

I don’t see Heathcliff anymore, though. Where did he go?

There are so many aisles that he could’ve gone down any number of them. I start walking down the main one, looking down either side, down long rows of bookshelves, looking for him.

Down at the far end of the library, there’s a sitting room, complete with a fireplace, with the flames going, and in front of it are Samir, Hana, and Blade. They’re all tied to chairs and gagged. I rush to them and take off their gags.

“You’ve got to get out of here,” Hana says urgently as I kneel down and try to undo the knots on their wrists.

“It’s a trap,” Blade adds.

“You can untie us first, though, if you want,” Samir says.

“Don’t listen to him, Miranda,” Hana says. “You need to get out of here. This is a trap. She wants…”

The knots are too tight. I can’t get them undone. As I struggle with them, I see, out of the corner of my eye, a flash of movement. I struggle with the ropes even faster, trying to get them loose. On the other side of us there’s another flash. It’s a woman running.

“She’s here,” Blade says.

“Run,” Hana says urgently, but before I can, two ice-cold hands come around my arms. They’re like steel.

That’s when I hear Emily Brontë’s voice in my ear.

“Nice of you to come for a visit, my dear,” she says. “Why don’t you stay a while?”

Twenty-nine

“Welcome, Miranda,”
Emily says, as Heathcliff appears beside her. “Bind her,” she orders him.

“Wait, what’s going on?” I cry, as Heathcliff puts his hands on my shoulders and sits me down in the chair. I send him a pleading look, but he doesn’t look me in the eye. He puts my hands behind my back and ties my wrists to the chair.

“Told you it was a trap,” Hana says.

“Silence!” Emily calls. Instantly, Hana stops talking.

On the other side of Emily, I see Mrs. Rochester walking up. I squirm and fight the ropes, but it’s no use. I’m held fast. I shout as loud as I can, but no one seems fazed.

“We’re deep underground and the walls are at least ten feet thick,” Hana says. “It’s useless.”

All I can do is watch, helplessly, as Mrs. Rochester takes up her stance by the fire, staring into it, transfixed. I glance over at Heathcliff. I can’t believe I was so wrong about him and everyone else was so right. He lured me here. He was helping Emily Brontë all along.

“The page?” Emily says then, and that’s when Heathcliff reaches into my pocket, pulls out the page of
Wuthering Heights,
and hands it over to Emily Brontë.

“You realize that the book didn’t work without the missing page,” Hana says.

“I was trying to save you guys,” I point out.

“Yeah, nice rescue,” Samir says, struggling against the ropes. “Next time, you might want to think about bringing reinforcements. You know, just a thought.”

“Heathcliff, what are you
doing
?” I cry. “She’s crazy. You can’t help her. She’s going to destroy everything.”

Emily takes the page, studies it, and then looks at me. “You’re wasting your time,” she tells me, surprisingly clear for an insane woman. “I’m his creator, and he cannot stray from my will.”

I look up at Heathcliff, but he looks away from me. Is this true? Is he just her pawn?

“Heathcliff,” I say. “You can’t be helping her. She’s insane.”

Heathcliff won’t look at me.

“Ah, Miranda, you are so like my Cathy,” Emily says. “I can see the family resemblance.”

“Family resemblance? What are you talking about?” I ask, fighting against the ropes that bind me to the chair.

“Did my sister Charlotte not tell you? That is such a shame,” Emily says. “Did you think it was just a coincidence that you looked so much like my Cathy? Like Catherine Linton? The same Catherine that is my dear Heathcliff’s love? You are her great granddaughter, five times over.”

“That’s not possible,” I sputter. “She’s a fictional character — she doesn’t exist.”

“That’s where you are wrong, my dear,” Emily says. “Fifteen years ago was not the first time Cathy — Catherine — crossed over to this world. She’d done so several times before, as did her daughter, Elizabeth.”

“But her daughter wasn’t named Elizabeth,” Hana says. “She was named Catherine. After her mother.” Leave it to Hana to know all the details of
Wuthering Heights.

“That is correct,” Emily says. “That was the name of her older daughter. But she had twins, you see. In my version, she had twins, Catherine and Elizabeth. Elizabeth escaped into this world, however, in 1848. She found her anchor in a boy she met at this school. That was Miranda’s great - great - great - great - grandfather.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I mean, I knew there was some Cherokee in my family, but now fictional characters? How is this possible?

“Elizabeth Linton married and had three children, and then she became real in this world and disappeared forever from
Wuthering Heights,
” Emily says. “And now you, her descendant, are the key to making all my characters real.”

“I don’t understand,” I say.

“Your mixed blood gives you a power nobody else has over these books. Over the vault itself. Or didn’t my sister tell you that? I guess they didn’t want you to know,” Emily says. “You are the key to opening the door fully between these dimensions. You span them both, you see.”

Hana, Samir, and Blade all look at me.

“That is
way cool
,” Blade says.

Emily takes out
Wuthering Heights
and replaces the missing page. As I watch, miraculously, it’s fused back to the original spot.

“But what about the ghost? In my room?”

“There was never a ghost in your room,” Emily says. “Unless you count me as that ghost. I was playing the part. Leading you around to clues. I wanted to draw you here, so that you could open the portal — permanently. No longer will there be a barrier between these worlds. And Heathcliff, of course, helped me. He’d do anything to be reunited again with his
real
Catherine.”

Heathcliff glances up to Emily, and then his eyes rest briefly on me.

“But you do understand that the world will end,” I say to Emily.

“It may or may not,” she says, “but it’s a risk worth taking. Even if the world is destroyed, it means I’ll be free from this prison. Now, Miranda, it’s time for you to read to us.” Emily places the open book on my lap.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I won’t do it.”

“Then your friends die now,” Emily says. She places her hands around Samir’s neck and squeezes. He struggles.

“Don’t hurt him,” I shout. “I’ll do what you say.”

I start to read, and suddenly the walls around us shake. It feels like there’s going to be an earthquake. Books fly off the shelves, thudding to the ground. Bits of dust and rock fall from the ceiling as the vault shakes.

Beneath our feet, a giant crack appears in the ground, and a bright, white light shines through it. Our dimension. It’s falling apart.

“End-of-the-world time,” Blade says.

A hand pops out of the book — a girl’s hand. Catherine’s, I think, but I’m not sure how I know it’s her.

That’s when Charlotte comes up through the floor of the room. Her ghost appears, holding her own copy of
Jane Eyre.

Ms. W and Coach H appear then, too, walking into the room through the vault walls.

“You didn’t really think we’d just let Miranda wander around without some protection?” Ms. W says, and then she winks at me. I feel immensely relieved.

Heathcliff stands up, looking from one teacher to another, trying to figure out where he should place his energies.

“Emily, stop this at once,” she demands. “You will destroy everything.”

“Oh, I hope I do,” she says. “I can think of no better way to be released from this prison. This world will be destroyed, yes, but my Moors will live on, with me in them.”

“But the world, these students, you would risk killing them all?”

“I would sooner save my dog than any one of these students,” Emily says, suddenly sounding bitter. “They’re all spoiled, every one of them. They don’t know what suffering is. My Heathcliff now is barely nineteen, and he’s known a lifetime of suffering.”

I look at Heathcliff. Now that I know his current age, I realize he’s not
that
much older than me. Four years. It’s a lot, but not as much as I thought. In the firelight, he looks even younger. He looks at me.

“I don’t understand,” Charlotte says.

“I’ve found a way to
live
in my book, forever,” Emily says. “With Heathcliff and Catherine here, I can go inside the book. Live there. Forever.”

With that, she puts her own hand into the book and as she does so, the girl’s hand changes. It starts to…wither. And, just as we watch, the flesh falls away, until nothing is left but the bones beneath.

Heathcliff’s face falls.

“What are you doing?” Heathcliff cries.

“Catherine’s life for hers,” Charlotte says.

Mrs. Rochester seems to come to life suddenly, her eyes fixed on Charlotte. She lunges suddenly for the fire, grabbing a flaming log without caring about its heat, and charges Charlotte. Taken off balance, she drops
Jane Eyre
and struggles with her own character, trying to restrain her. There’s an odd tug of war, where Charlotte tries to keep her from setting fire to the pile of books on the floor.

“Get her or we’re all destroyed!” Charlotte cries. Ms. W goes to help Charlotte stop Mrs. Rochester, who seems to be intent on burning books, and Coach H approaches Emily, but Heathcliff springs into action, knocking him back. Then, in one swift motion, Heathcliff swipes the book from Emily’s hands. It’s still open and the skeleton hand is still sticking out of it.

“Hand it here, Heathcliff,” commands Emily.

Coach H circles carefully, ready to spring if necessary, but unsure of what Heathcliff plans to do.

“No,” I say. “No, don’t. Look what she’s done already — Catherine is dead. She means to kill us all, so she can live.”

Heathcliff looks at me and then at Emily.

“You cannot disobey your creator. Your thoughts and actions have always been mine to control,” Emily says. “And this is your fate, Heathcliff. It has always been your fate. To mourn the loss of Catherine. It’s what I created you for. Not to love. To mourn.”

Ever so gently, he touches the fingers of the skeleton hand. Heathcliff’s face settles into a scowl and he slams the book shut. The crack in the floor closes. The building stops shaking. He glares at the fire.

It’s as if Emily knows his thoughts already, because she says, “If you destroy that book, you destroy yourself, as well as me. Remember that.”

He looks at the book a little longer and then at the fire.

“You are Catherine’s murderer,” he says. “And you would be still. You would kill her again and again. Why? For your amusement?”

“No,” Emily says, shaking her head. “She dies to make your love great. And if you destroy this book, you’ll never see her again, not even for a brief time. You’ll be dead yourself. Trapped forever away from the things you love.”

“I see her now,” Heathcliff says, looking at me.

“That is not the true Cathy. She’s not your love. And she’ll betray you.”

Emily moves to me, putting her cold hands around my neck. “Give the book over,” she commands.

“If you destroy her, you destroy me,” Heathcliff says, looking at me. “She is my soul and I cannot live without my soul.”

He tosses
Wuthering Heights
into the fire. Coach H lunges forward, but he’s too late. Emily cries out, letting go of me and grasping helplessly for the book. But as she becomes translucent to avoid the fire flames, she can’t pick up the book. Her hands go through it. As we watch the flames take hold of the book, she slowly starts to disappear.

Coach H drops his head sadly.

Behind them, Ms. W and Charlotte send Mrs. Rochester back to
Jane Eyre.
Seeing her sister’s book burning, Charlotte shouts and desperately tries to save the book from the fire, but it’s too late. The book’s pages have crumpled and turned black and Emily is fading away, bit by bit.

Alarmed, I look at Heathcliff. I expect to see him fade away, as well, but when I turn to look for him, he’s gone. Disappeared. Did he disappear instantly?

I look back to Emily and see that she, too, has faded to nothingness. I sink down to my knees. He destroyed himself for me, I think, and I didn’t even get a chance to thank him.