FIFTY-THREE

Faster. Faster. Faster

There we were, packed in a black tunnel—with a herd of bullies, one lantern, and a cave cricket who couldn’t help lying.

Grabbing the lantern, Stump passed to the front of the line as Reliable St. John urged him, “Go slower. Go slower.”

The rhinos lined up behind Stump, whining and griping all the while. Each one of them was convinced that he or she should be carrying the lantern. When Uncle Floyd and I tried following Stump up front, several rhinos blocked our way, snapping, “End of the line!”

Uncle Floyd didn’t mind, though. He was too tickled with the return of his fingers and toes to care. At one point, he said to me, “Wait till Huntington hears about this.” I didn’t exactly get around to explaining that his brother, my Great-Great-Great-Grandfather Huntington Bridgewater, had been dead and buried for around a hundred years. Not too far behind us, Bodacious Deepthink was bellowing at her trolls.

“’FRAIDY CATS! CRYBABIES!”

The rock trolls weren’t too eager to pop through a black hole where a herd of escaping rhinoceroses had just disappeared.

After we rounded a couple of bends, the rock trolls’ shouts faded to a rumble. By then the tunnel, stretching out in darkness before and behind us, already seemed too long to me. Cut out of limestone, the walls sparkled as the lantern passed, but way back at the end of the line, where Uncle Floyd and I bumped along, the sparkles had already faded to a dull yellow-green, the color of split-pea soup. The tunnel was damp and smelly as soup too, last year’s batch. Its ceiling rose higher than I could jump. Its sides stretched far enough apart for two rhinos to walk side by side, if they didn’t squabble. Fat chance.

At least we couldn’t hear any footsteps echoing in the inkiness behind us, though we didn’t get to feel safe for long. An explosion suddenly knocked us down, followed by a dusty wind that blew over us. When the blast’s echoes quit filling our ears and the wind died off, the ringing of pickaxes breaking rock could be heard.

They must have been widening the mouth of the tunnel to accommodate Bodacious Deepthink’s swollen body, for the Great Rock Troll was screeching something over and over. Straining, I could make out just one word.

“FASTER! FASTER! FASTER!”

Only Reliable St. John, now riding atop the lantern, had something to say to that—“I think we should wait for her.”

Taking the hint, Stump started trotting. The rest of us bumbled along behind.

When we reached the first fork in the tunnel, we all held up while Stump asked Reliable St. John which way to go.

“To the right,” the cave cricket said.

Stump swung the lantern toward the right fork, which was the smaller of the two.

“You sure?” Stump asked.

“No,” Reliable St. John answered.

Satisfied, Stump led us down the left fork, though there was plenty of second-guessing in the line behind him.

From then on, every time we reached a fork in the tunnel, Stump asked the same questions and Reliable St. John lied the same answers. In general, the tunnels headed up and the air grew ever so faintly fresher, though every once in a while we hit a stretch that dipped downward and the air turned fouler. Twice we passed small side tunnels down which we could hear stone birds singing far away. At those times everybody moved faster, especially Duke, who had shoved his way up front and who claimed over and over that he could hear the rock trolls getting closer. Maybe he could.

Bodacious Deepthink and her trolls had to have known some shortcuts. At times I thought I could hear voices or footsteps through the walls myself. But maybe not. Underground, in total darkness, sound comes from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

Eventually we reached a three-way fork in the tunnel and came to a total stop, for the extra tunnel meant it took longer to sort through Reliable St. John’s lies. When the cricket said we should take the tunnel on the right, there were still two tunnels on the left to choose from.

“Should we take this one?” Stump pointed at the nearest of the two remaining tunnels.

“By all means,” Reliable St. John said, “if you want to get lost.”

“That must mean it’s the way to go,” Stump reckoned. “Since we don’t want to get lost.”

But before we could get started, a toe-curling squeal erupted from the herd. Rock trolls had sprung out of the tunnel on the right and were dragging the closest rhino away.

“I’m too skinny!” the rhino cried, kicking and crashing about. “Way too skinny!”

“Save him!” Uncle Floyd shouted.

And that was when the first of twenty-eight more amazing things happened in that tunnel. One of the rhinos in the middle of the herd lowered his horn and charged to the rescue.

“Fool,” Duke said.

Just then the rhino reached the trolls and there was a bang and a flash as loud and bright as another rocket blasting off for Pluto. There was smoke too, along with the sweet smell of peaches and cream. The trolls dropped the rhino they’d snatched and fled for their lives.

What caused the explosion?

A second act of genuine kindness.

After the echoes faded and the smoke cleared, a short, chunky kid in a tattered Little League uniform stood where the charging rhino had been. He was grinning wildly while rubbing a thumb across his forehead. His horn had vanished—not even a knob marked the spot.