The Minions of Time Page 10

  With teeth clenched and face forward, Owen hissed, “In the name of the King and for his kingdom, attack!”

  Owen held tight as Grandpa’s wings formed a V and he dived straight for the rustling feathers. He hit something solid and sent it crashing into the water. When something slashed at Grandpa’s neck, he let out a cry and turned, hitting the invisible being with his tail. But another being grabbed Grandpa’s leg and snarled, ripping into the flesh.

  Owen leaped from the flyer’s shoulders and fell onto the bird’s feathers, rolling to a stop in the water.

  “Wormling!” Watcher said. “They’re ripping Machree to shreds! If only you had your sword!”

  Owen looked to the sky. “Petunia! Attack!”

  Now Grandpa and Petunia flew as one, locking wings and heading straight for the massive bird. The force of the wind knocked Owen and Watcher to the ground, and they heard a kerthunk as two bodies plopped into a muddy hole. In all their wriggling to escape, mud splattered their invisible bodies and they became visible to Owen.

  They had the pointed heads of dragons but longer teeth that looked just as sharp. Their bodies were sleek and lithe like a snake’s, and their wings made them look more like rockets than flying beasts.

  Grandpa and Petunia timed their next move perfectly. They let go of each other’s wing and pirouetted so their tails slapped the demon flyers toward the trees, splintering the treetops.

  Owen thought Watcher was running away, but she returned quickly with The Book of the King. “Read this to them!”

  Owen had so missed Watcher’s quick thinking. He read aloud:

  “Hear the words of the King! The King will make the flying beasts obey his Son, and no harm shall befall him. Neither will they hurt his friends when he commands, for they will be lifted up and cared for.”

  The demon flyers hissed at him, and like cornered cats that can do nothing but spit, they gnashed their teeth and cried, then rose in a flash and were gone.

  Finally it was time for hugs and pats on the back and smiles and laughter for Owen and Watcher. There was so much to talk about, so much to tell, but Owen couldn’t help but be concerned about the great bird that lay before him.

  “You were coming for me, Watcher?” he said.

  Watcher quickly told him the whole story of the Changeling and their friends from the castle. “I knew you would need the book and Mucker, but—” Her voice broke, and she dipped her head.

  “But what, Watcher?”

  The bird groaned.

  “Nothing,” Watcher said. “Let’s get Machree some help.”

  Owen determined that the bird’s wounds were grave.

  “Are you really the Wormling she’s been talking about?” the bird gasped.

  Owen stroked the bird’s head and nodded. “We’re going to get you help before those flyers come back.”

  “Where?” Watcher whispered.

  “If we leave him here, he’ll sink and drown,” Owen said.

  “We certainly can’t carry him.”

  The wind rose again, and Watcher ducked strangely, as if surprised by something from above.

  Grandpa and Petunia took their places on either side of Machree, and with a mighty heave of their wings, they rolled the bird into position on Petunia’s back.

  Owen and Watcher climbed aboard Grandpa and followed.

  Wings flapped and a sentry called out a warning, but the Dragon signaled to RHM that the two demon flyers were allowed into his lair, where he was meeting with his council. His red eyes burned in the darkness, watching these two shake with delight at the very thought of being in his presence. They would not have dared approach him without a message of importance, so he tolerated their mud-splattered bodies.

  The flyers mince-stepped forward, heads down, wings back, paying homage. He growled at them to get on with it, and they finally looked up and walked forward, standing at attention.

  “We’ve seen him,” the first flyer said.

  “Yes,” the second chimed, “and that Watcher of his.”

  The first flyer looked around at the council members. “We attacked the great bird who had flown from his forest perch. It was dark when I threw it to the ground, and we thought it was dead.”

  “What great bird?” the Dragon said.

  “Machree, Your Majesty,” the second said. “In the morning we returned to finish the job, and that’s when we saw the Watcher.”

  “You said you saw him,” RHM said. “Who?”

  “The Wormling, of course,” the first flyer said. “We were about to feast on the carcass of the bird, removing the feathers first, when he swooped down on the back of a transport flyer.”

  “Transport?” the Dragon said, squinting.

  RHM moved closer and lowered his voice. “There was a report of two transport—”

  “Yes, I know,” the Dragon hissed and turned back to the demon flyer. “Go on!”

  “He attacked and chased us away.”

  “How do you know it was him?” the Dragon said. “Have you seen the Wormling before?”

  “It was his words. He spoke with authority—”

  “As if straight from his heart,” the second flyer said. “Straight from the K—”

  The first clamped a wing over the other’s mouth.

  The Dragon seethed. “Don’t go sappy on me now!”

  “He didn’t know, sire.”

  The Dragon stood and paced. “Why didn’t you capture him and bring him here?”

  The flyers’ eyes darted among the council. “Well,” one said, “he seemed so authoritative and powerful, it was clear we had to get here as quickly as possible to inform you of his whereabouts.”

  “So do! Where is he?”

  “Heading toward the line of people moving through the valley, Your Majesty. In the direction of the White Mountain.”

  The second held up a wing and dipped his head, like a child afraid of asking for a cookie. “One more thing, sire, if Your Majesty will allow me—”

  “Just say it!”

  “Right. Well, a strange thing happened. The Watcher never sensed us. Usually she sees us a long way off, but it was almost as if—”

  “She has lost her powers.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Thank you. Dismissed.”

  RHM saw the two out, and members of the council began throwing ideas at the Dragon.

  “Marshal the army and make sure this Wormling is dead,” General Prufro said. He was a fat, scaly beast with giant incisors that made him whistle when he talked. “Descend on him while his Watcher is incapacitated.”

  “That was the job I gave Slugspike. But since he’s failing miserably, I will do it myself. RHM, send me your most trusted demon flyer—”

  “But, Your Majesty,” the general said, “I firmly believe—”

  A rattle formed in the Dragon’s throat. Fighting to hold back the fire within, he snapped, “I know where he’s going! And when he gets there, he will be more vulnerable than he can imagine. I will strike him down and cleanse this world.”

  The Dragon ordered that the refined gems be taken to the White Mountain.

  “The supply is not complete,” RHM said.

  “Take what you have and move it into the mouth of the cave. And quickly.”

  Back in the Highlands—in Owen’s world, where he lived above a used-book store and read to his heart’s content—life continued despite his absence. As soon as he had left, darkness fell over the land like a blanket. Even people with normally happy dispositions walked with heads down or stayed inside behind closed blinds.

  It is to this locale and away from the primitive life of the Lowlands that we return now to walk lighted streets on paved sidewalks. This is much like your world, with cars and planes and audio players and bullies in the hallway. It is a world vastly different from what Owen has experienced in the Lowlands, yet it has many of the same concerns. But these people cannot see the fight going on around them.

  Through the shadows of this world, on
a street with few cars and only one business still open toward the end of that street, walks a young girl, a cape drawn over her shoulders and gathered about her head. She seems to know exactly where she is going, but sometimes she fearfully peers out of her cape to look behind her or across the street.

  She passes under a streetlamp, and it suddenly flickers and flashes. She looks up, and just before the lamp goes dark, we are able to see her face—beautiful, soft and tender, and full of charm.

  She continues down the street toward the tavern with its laughter and music and the smell of freshly baked potatoes and homemade bread and meat on a grill. She looks as if she could use a good meal, for her frame is slight and she appears no heavier than a butterfly.

  She studies the glowing light of a fire flickering through the tavern window, listening to the clink of silverware and the calls for more bread or drink. Next door is a huge window and a door with a sign overhead: Tattered Treasures. The place looks abandoned, though books still line the shelves. No coats or hats on the rack beside the door. Yellow police tape strung across this door says Do Not Cross.

  When a dark figure approaches from down the street, she walks past the tavern and around the other side. From there she runs down the alley, displaying impressive speed, and turns the corner to find a man in a long, white apron scraping potato peels into a trash bin. He wipes his brow, covers the trash, and stands gazing at the back of the Tattered Treasures building next to the tavern. Finally the man hurries back inside.

  The shrouded figure appears at the end of the alley, so the girl quickly jumps onto the Tattered Treasures fire escape. Climbing to the second story, she finds the window unlocked, dives in onto a squeaky bed, and fumbles in the dark to close the window. Below she sees the figure round the corner, scanning the alley. Trying to lock the window, she breaks off the ancient metal piece, and it clatters to the floor.

  She ducks, holding her breath, unable to bring herself to look out again to see if he passes.

  She scans the bookshelves in the moonlight, having become a great lover of books since meeting Owen. She notices three books on the floor and reaches to feel the leather spines. Were these his favorites or simply ones he had been reading before he left?

  She feels awkward here, as if not only trespassing on a crime scene but also trespassing on Owen’s life. She gingerly passes through the living room, past Mr. Reeder’s room, and runs into the kitchen table, banging her thigh. On the table a newspaper headline reads “Search for Missing Boy Continues.”

  She can recite the story by heart. The local high school notified authorities that Owen was missing. His father gave the police no information and was taken in for questioning. Petrov, a worker at the tavern next door, told the reporter that Owen was a nice young man who didn’t get into trouble and was obedient. Clara Secrest, a classmate, said Owen had trouble with some boys at the school. The bookstore closed, and bloodhounds found no trace of the boy.

  The events of the past come flooding back to Constance—or Connie, as Owen called her. She had followed him instead of going to school one day, and that had set in motion events that brought them face-to-face with a beast so hideous and powerful that she shudders just thinking about it.

  She walks down the stairs and wanders through the store, remembering the look on the face of Mr. Page, the old man who had given the strange book to Owen. It had been in the front room where he had cut Owen’s foot and removed something from it. The man whispered to Constance—something that made her fearful and encouraged her at the same time. And then he simply disappeared.

  A noise in the back room snaps her back to reality. She shrinks to the floor and crawls under the desk. A door opens and she holds her breath as the footsteps stop, then move toward her.

  Two shoes, beaten and weathered, and the pants look like something a homeless person would wear. The floor creaks as the intruder walks toward the front desk. She gasps when he speaks.

  “Where are you, little girl? And what are you doing here? Have you come looking for him?”

  Her hands shake, and she feels an urge to go to the bathroom. A really bad urge. But she stays frozen under that desk, watching the feet move to the window facing the street. Then nothing. Has he left?

  Connie listens carefully, barely able to hear anything over her pounding heart. What would Fern in Charlotte’s Web do in this position? Or Nancy Drew?

  When she can stand it no longer, she crawls forward and looks around the corner of the desk. She moves to the door. Still locked.

  Her heart races again and she looks up, expecting to see him hovering.

  Staying low, she runs to the bathroom, teeth chattering, mind wandering. She sits in the dark, then runs the water, gently washing her hands, careful not to make noise.

  Back toward the front of the store she freezes at the sight of a man outside. But he isn’t coming through the door—he’s coming through the window. She prepares herself for the terrific crash of glass, but it never comes. The man has walked directly through the window!

  Connie slips into the history section and kneels, hoping he hasn’t seen her. When she hears the rattle of the back door, she wonders why he has used a door at all.

  Finally she moves back into the fiction room and climbs the shelves, looking for the Medusa-head bookend she had seen Mr. Page pull. It wasn’t there. Someone had smashed it on the floor. She climbs back down, examines the shelf, and tries to remember what Owen told her about the entrance.

  If a Medusa head opened the shelf before, there must be something up there to do it again, she thinks.

  Connie climbs up on the shelf, higher now, and shoves books aside, finally finding the place where the Medusa head had rested. A stone base remains, and in the middle there’s a hole. She sticks her finger in but can’t move the mechanism inside.

  She climbs down again, getting tired of all the climbing, and runs to the front desk to grab a letter opener. When she jams it into the hole and pulls, the bookshelf moves and she slips behind it.

  The bookshelf closed behind Constance, and she plunged into total darkness. No torches this time. Carefully she made her way down, fearing the horrid creature she had glimpsed trying to catch them—Mr. Page had called it a Slimesees.

  With her hand on the curving wall, she reached the last step, where she encountered a musty, salty smell she associated with the ocean. She moved to her right down a narrow corridor toward a pinpoint of flickering light. This was the way she and Owen had come with Mr. Page.

  The light turned out to be a glowing torch, and Constance was determined to have it. She climbed the wall, wedging her feet between wet stones. It took all her strength to balance herself while pulling the torch from its holder.

  No sooner was she on the ground than she heard rustling behind her. She quickly moved away, retracing steps she and Owen had taken so long ago.

  Through passage after passage, trying one underground channel, then another, backing up and trying again, Constance tried to recall the route they had taken. When with Mr. Page and Owen, she had simply followed and hadn’t paid much attention.

  Strangely, despite her fear and the danger, Constance’s mind raced with how much her life had changed since Owen’s departure. Her mother no longer went to the bookstore to clean. Constance went to school and faithfully did her homework, but she was just going through the motions, simply biding time. For what, she didn’t know. But with every step toward school, home, or the library (the only other place she was allowed), she sensed someone following her. And when she had been frightened by a wing flap overhead, she told her mother.

  “Nonsense,” the woman said, but her look betrayed her.

  Constance had to wonder if some kind of presence had also triggered a fear in her mother.

  “Yes, Mother,” Constance had said. She had retreated to her room, turned out her light, and looked out the window, waiting for watching eyes. It was those eyes she had been afraid to alert when she had slipped out, down the back stairs and into the a
lley, while her mother was sleeping. Cloaked and walking in shadows, she had gone unnoticed in her corner of the world and had walked the familiar streets to the bookstore.

  She had passed the Briarwood Café and stared through the window at the girl with the long, flowing hair who wiped the countertop with a rag. This was the girl Owen had taken to the movies, and Constance wished she could be as beautiful as Clara.

  Constance had a friend who said she could tell the future. “I think you’ll get married,” her friend had said. “And he’ll be some congressman or governor or maybe even the president. Yes, the president of the whole country. You’ll live in a big house, and people will wait on you. They’ll take pictures of you getting in and out of your car and stuff like that.”

  Constance had laughed, because she knew no one could tell the future—especially her friend. Still, the idea intrigued her. With all she had suffered, could her grown-up life be destined for something grand?

  Constance came to a bend in the tunnel where she, Owen, and Mr. Page had rested and talked after the winged beast had attacked them in the old bed-and-breakfast place—the B and B. Something had drawn them there to meet that man, and now she felt as if she was being drawn again. But why? What secrets did this underground tunnel and the B and B hold?

  The beast that had chased them had shot fire down a shaft, and as Constance drew close to it, she saw the charred wood along the floor where the flames had licked. The sight sent shivers through her, recalling the overwhelming fear, but Mr. Page’s calm had soothed her and infused her with a resolve to survive.

  But now dread surfaced as a blast of air shot through the tunnel, making the torch flutter and nearly go out. A sound filled the room, a humming, buzzing, whine of a small motor or perhaps of a large animal.

  The bottom of the elevator shaft remained intact, though the top and sides had been charred. The rustling behind her seemed closer now. She threw the torch toward the opening and backed into the enclosure, peeking through the wood slats of the cage. Mr. Page had lowered them with a pulley and crank, so Constance grabbed for the hanging chain. Could this damaged contraption possibly still hold her?