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Curt boots his way through a half broken door and steps to one side, allowing our giant cat to squeeze up to his shoulder. Another blast of fire clears our entrance to what was once the jewel of the empire. A library fit for romantic fantasy now languishes in the depths of grimdark purgatory.
“Can you keep doing the fire thing?” I ask, inserting my face between them, worried that Kit’s going to run out of juice like the Serpent Armpit.
“The fire thing, as you so quaintly put it, is far less taxing than air walking,” Kit replies, tipping his head towards me. “Scratch my ear.”
I duly obey, ignoring Curt tutting.
“Tell you what,” my mate snaps, “scratch my ar...”
Kit thrusts out a paw pad, catapulting Curt into the library. “In you go, fuzzy.”
“Boys, behave,” I scold. “It’s too dangerous in here.”
“He started it,” whines Kit. “I’ve been locked in a cage in the dark. Nobody knows what I’ve suffered.”
“More fire,” Curt cries, hurtling back and practically leaping onto Kit’s shoulder to avoid a squelching carpet of mulch heading our way.
“Oh now I’m your best friend,” says the cat, nose in the air, lowering that shoulder to tip Curt onto the floor.
“Kit!” the Furtletooths holler, clinging to one another in terror as the wave of mould rolls in, about to swamp us.
“Piffle,” says Kit and blows a loud raspberry as he flamethrows his way out of certain death. Well, certain mould infestation.
The infamous mould skitters backwards as Kit turns in a wide circle, leaving us in a relatively safe epicentre, able to peruse our shadowy surroundings. Anguis’s footsteps once clattered across cracked white marble, but the floor is now so shattered, there’s little left but dirt and dust. This vast space, once filled from floor to vaulted ceiling with thousands of books, heaves with bubbling mould like the surface of a cauldron. The corpses of grey moths, which once flapped around ornate torches, stick to warped casements like fossilised amber.
The coiled snakes running along the walls drip mould, as though the whole gigantic place sank through the spiritual divide into hell itself. Iron shelves, built to shelter the treasures of knowledge, have warped like molten nightmares. Most of the precious tomes disintegrated long ago, their leather covers rotting in bubbling, burping mould slime. The rancid stench of decay is beyond belief. I want to wail at the loss.
“All the history of the Snake Empire and the other changers, just gone,” I mutter. “It’s so sad.”
“Yes. Sad,” repeats Curt, when I glare at him. Wolves pass their teaching through word of mouth, so the disintegration of priceless books means little to him.
“Snake Empire, indeed,” says Kit, with a snort. “Serpen’s snakes have barely been here a few generations. I can tell you history going back to when I was a kitten in a world full of cats. One day, if you’re very lucky, I’ll teach you of far off lands, monsters and dancing walruses.”
“What’s a walruses?” asks Curt. “And is it relevant, right now?”
“Hmmm,” Kit deigns to agree. “So, Storyteller, where’s your DreamWay?”
“It should be over there,” I reply, staring at the former position of a certain reading table.
All the tables and armchairs, once occupied by those who filled their minds with learning, have perished in the ravages of decay, much like those very students. The table where I recovered the book is no longer there, nothing left but a single carved leg poking out of the mould.
“It’s gone,” I groan, as though pronouncing judgement upon us all. No sooner have I said it than a lightbulb pops on in my imagination.
“Could the book be under the mould?” asks Curt.
It’s a sensible question, but I already know it hasn’t perished, nor is it buried beneath the slime. My book, annoyed at its disrespectful treatment, arose like that phoenix and hid itself somewhere safe. It expects me to complete my penance by striving to find it and search I shall.
“Look on the shelves,” I tell Curt and Kit, “but don’t touch anything.”
They give each other the eye and turn their backs to peer at opposite sides of the room. A few revolting pokes with a torch turn up little but rot, mould and even more mould, along with the putrid covers of decaying books, none of them the DreamWay. Unfortunately, we’re in a huge library, with endless rows of mangled shelving disappearing into the cavernous back of beyond.
“A needle in a haystack,” I mutter.
“More like a burnt book in a room full of mouldy books,” says Curt, struggling with my keen sense of literary metaphor.
“You’re rather dim, aren’t you Mange?” sighs Kit.
Just a minute. No-one gets to use that nickname but me.
“His name is Curt,” I snap, “and he doesn’t have mange. And he’s not dim. He just never has a clue what I’m wittering on about.”
“Thank you,” says Curt. “I think.”
“Alrighty, uppity madam,” Kit retorts, slapping me on the back of the head with the tufty end of his tail. “Perhaps you could do what you came here to do.”
“Which is?”
“Tell a story.”
Right. Tell a story. One in which I find the magic book, I assume. No pressure.
“Sorry to hurry you, Big Bum,” Curt whispers, “but that mould is moving again.”
“Why are you whispering?” Kit bellows, making me juggle my torch with fright. “We can all hear you, including the mould.”
“Once upon a time there was a woman, a wolf and a loud mouthed cat,” I begin, grabbing Curt’s arm to prevent any further retaliation. “They crept through a dark and freezing castle full of mould in a desperate search for the lost DreamWay.”
“Hidden,” Kit mutters.
“In a desperate search for the hidden DreamWay. Deep in the once glorious library they saw no sign of the book amongst the corpses of literature.”
“Can you not say corpses, please,” Curt mumbles.
These critics are getting on my nerves.
“Where could it be? the woman asked herself, sure the answer lurked inside her story. You are hidden, yet you want to be found. You are a book amongst books, yet a book like no other. You are a treasure. Where would a treasure be kept? Not above in a dying castle, nor beside me, amidst the echoes of the past, thought the Storyteller, but below my feet, safe in in the... secret vault.”
“That’s my girl,” say Curt and Kit, at exactly the same time, then glare at one another.
“Where would the entrance be? Somewhere dark and hidden amongst the books.” I set off, heading for the mangled shelving, hoping the story will lead me home. “Kit, can you clear the floor without setting fire to the books?”
Curt jogs up beside me, keeping pace whilst the cat slinks around us both and burps a thin stream of fire, clearing a few steps ahead as I march through the rows of shelving.
“Not this row, nor this,” I state. “Farther and farther, deeper and deeper, darker and darker, the Storyteller travels, listening for the call of true magic.”
I’ve never ventured this far into the library and, back here, some of the books remain partially intact, despite mould infiltration. Torchlight barely penetrates the thick darkness and the sense of claustrophobia presses in as we move between tightly stacked rows.
A ding goes off in my brain, reminding me of those brass bells you used to get on reception desks.
“Bingo,” I exclaim, stopping dead.
“Meowgo,” sings Kit, doing a little leap in the air.
Curt frowns. “I guess that means you’ve found something.”
“It’s here,” I announce. “But not here.”
“You mean the book?” asks Curt.
“No. Well, yes. A book, but not the DreamWay. The Key.”
“The Key to the hidden vault?”
“The Key to finding the hidden vault,” I reply, “is a particular book.”
“Great,” says Curt. “Any clue as to what it looks like?”
Kit snorts. “Like a book. However, we shall not be looking for it.”
“Of course not,” Curt mutters with a nervous laugh, completely confused.
“I need to feel for it by storytelling,” I tell him, giving his bicep a squeeze.
“Of course you do.”
“Not much fun being my mate, is it?”
“I wouldn’t say that,” he replies, winking at my breasts. “Tell your story. And I love you.”
“I love you too,” says Kit, lathering the side of Curt’s face with his tongue, “but get on with it.”
“Ergh. Yuck. Get off.”
I leave Curt wiping his face with his sleeve whilst I scan some of the books. The spines are just about legible beneath the stains as I run my fingers along the shelves, taking care not to actually touch anything.
The Rattler Insertion Method.
Snakeskin Healing Cream.
Fang Whitener.
Regurgitative Purging.
They all sound lovely. I guess this is the medicinal section of snake life. Anyway, time to storytell.
“Deep in the library, the Storyteller heard the call and reached out with her words, requesting the Key to make itself known. I am known, it replied. You knew me from the beginning. I am the start of the story.”
A tickle runs over my hand as though every nerve contracts in turn and I yank my fingers away from the books, afraid the mould has made a leap of faith. Torchlight reveals no brown stain on my flesh, instead catching two golden sparks before they fizzle and fade away.
“Kit?”
“It’s not me,” he replies. “Do you feel it?”
“Feel what?” Curt asks, grasping my hand and inspecting the back and palm for injury.
I fold my fingers into his. “It’s magic. It didn’t hurt.”
He scans the shelves, whipping the torch back and forth. “Where’s it coming from?”
It’s hard to explain, but I sense the pull somewhere deep in my mind. A quiet voice giggles and calls out to me, like a child playing hide and seek.
“This way,” I announce.
Kit blows a new pathway of flame as we round the shelving.
“You stay close to me,” Curt whispers, still clutching my hand.
We wind through row after row in the darkness, such that I’ve no idea where we are, or how to get out again. We finally come to a halt at a dead end, created from three stacks of shelving.
“The entrance is here,” Kit announces. “I can sense it.”
“Great,” says Curt. “Any idea where the door is?”
“Once we have the Key the door will reveal itself,” I tell him, certain of that, although I’ve no idea how.
Kit burps and blows a golf ball of fire at an intruding finger of mould, which duly snatches back its burnt appendage.
“Right. So.” Curt turns to the rows of book spines. “S for Storyteller? E for Edi? H for Human?”
“B for Bumbrain,” Kit mutters.
I am the start of the story.
Of course. The title. The title is the start of a story.
“No. It’s T for The,” I laugh, crouching down to peer at a book on the bottom row.
There it is. The Key itself.
“The Return Of The Cat.”
“I would have expected something a little more thrilling,” says Kit, with an affected sniff. “No imagination, these snakes.”
Since my jumper’s already a ruin, I forgo the crop top and, slipping my fingers from Curt’s, rip it open. Covering my right hand with the wool, I slide the book free of its companions. We’re instantly rewarded with a sharp click as the three pieces of shelving unlock, rotate and slide sideways, revealing a circular, polished silver doorway set flush into a segment of shiny white marble flooring, untouched by the decay haunting the castle.
“I can’t see a knob,” says Curt.
“A response to that would be too easy,” Kit quips and I bust out laughing.
Squelching and bubbling echoes back, wiping the smile off my face.
“Kit, do you know...?”
“Opening the hidden vault would be your province, Storyteller,” says the cat, neatly passing the buck.
“Right. The Storyteller knew that beneath her feet, the DreamWay awaited her return. The time had come for them to be reunited. At the sound of her call, the door opened wide.”
No, it doesn’t. There it sits, resolutely shut. A big huff of annoyance from Kit isn’t helping.
“Open to me,” I command.
Nothing.
“The DreamWay desires to reunite and opens the door.”
Apparently, it doesn’t.
“Keep trying,” says Curt, rubbing my back as though I’ve got croup.
“Open sesame.”
Nothing happens.
My mind’s racing now. I can’t have come this far to fail at the front door. How does it open? What could I possibly say or do to...?
Oh, no.
Please, no.
But I do know. The DreamWay is mightily upset at having been torched without consultation and is making me pay, big time. I need to deliver a magical penance and I know exactly what it is. I can’t believe I’m going to have to do this. Again. Why, oh why, does my imagination do this to me? My resigned sigh carries the full weight of misery as I glance at a confused Curt for comfort.
“What?” he asks.
And into a full throated rendition of YMCA I plunge, complete with all the jolly alphabet actions, just in case. Kit quickly catches the tune and hums along happily, his front paws doing the symbols too. The look on Curt’s face could curdle milk.
I screech to a musical halt as the circular door squeals on its hidden hinge and slowly opens towards us. I half expect a zombie butler to peer at me from the other side, but a flight of marble steps sparkles in the torchlight, unmarred by even a speck of dust.
“Me first,” Curt announces, leaving a muddy footprint on the pristine surface as he descends into darkness.
“Shouldn’t those possessed of intelligence go first?” calls Kit.
“I don’t care,” Curt’s voice rings from the depths.
I’m hurrying after my mate, leaving Kit to bring up the rear of the expeditionary party, when a sound like the breaking of a mighty wave echoes through the library. Stack after stack of shelving crashes to the floor in a line of dominoes as the mould makes a thunderous dash for the open vault. Curt throws me his torch and sprints back up the steps to slam the door, but there’s no handle on the inside either. The wave blocks out all light and the library beyond falls into pitch darkness.
Curt glances back at me and I see goodbye flash in his eyes.
“No!” I scream.
He leaps through the doorway, planning to slam it shut from the outside and face the mould alone.
“Get back here,” growls Kit and hooks both front paws around Curt’s shins. A hefty tug upends my wolf, whose chin bounces off each step as Kit drags him back down, yelling, “Story,” at me.
“The vault door closed with a mighty bang,” I announce.
The door swings and clangs into place, sealing shut just as the wave of mould breaks against it.
Dropping both torches on the marble steps, I fling my arms around Curt, whimpering, “You stupid, mangy wolf. You were going to leave me here on my own. Don’t you dare do that. You promised.”
“I would point out that you are not alone,” says Kit, padding down the steps, “and that I saved his sorry life.”
“My hip hurts,” moans Curt, resting his head on my breasts, “and my chin.”
“I know, poppet.”
Thwarted, at least for now, the mould commences hammering on the door in a relentless thudding rhythm. Curt clambers to his feet and pulls me up after him, asking, “How do we get out again?”
“The same way we got in,” Kit replies, disappearing into the gloom, “but with the DreamWay having helped. I hope.”
Retrieving the torches, we turn away from the juddering door and follow Kit down into the vault. We both halt as the stationary rear end of cat suddenly blocks our view.
“Well, bless the heavenlies,” he exclaims.
