Seven

Ollie swayed on his feet. His vision blurred, then sharpened, then blurred again. His last meal was making its way back up his esophagus in a sour echo of cream cheese and bile. He was shaking. He was relieved to be alive. And he was more than a little stunned.

Despite all this, he understood.

With just one sweep of his eyes, it all became clear. He had thought he knew what his cosmos was made of. Weight and substance, order and logic, day and night, sky and ground. And he had been wrong. About all of it.

Some things you must see for yourself, yes? Laszlo had said. There is more to your world than you know, Ollie Delgato. More, even, than you could imagine.

He seemed to have landed in a cavern. Or at least, that was closest word his mind could find to describe the vast, anomalous expanse stretched out before him. It was…enormous. Existentially impossible to grasp. On and on it went, above and around, vanishing into foggy tunnels and wide horizons. Dipping in and out of sight with no discernible end. Ollie stood motionless, almost paralyzed by the immensity, as echoes fell down around him like whale song. Murmurs. Clangs. Splashes. The reverberations tickled his ears, not unpleasantly, and proved to his subconscious brain that the space was, somehow, enclosed. Finite.

He was standing on a rock. Shale, perhaps, or slate. Whatever it was, it had a uniformly gray-blue color and a mostly flat surface. It was also massive. In his haze, it occurred to Ollie that he could walk for a very long time on that rock without ever having to step on another. The stone formed a platform of sorts, like a landing pad, for the chairlift. Chairdrop? Ollie mulled this over for just a moment before leaving the thought to make room for the hundreds of others that were suddenly competing for his attention.

Beyond the rock platform, he saw water. This, too, was gargantuan, as though an entire Great Lake had been relocated underground. It seemed, at this distance, to be scattered with dozens of islands of varying sizes. Above the lake was a ceiling. It was a great distance above, perhaps as high as three Statues of Liberty stacked end-to-end. The ceiling also appeared to be made of rock, though it somehow let off a blue phosphorescent glow that infused the entire cavern in an eerie, pale light.

Below that domed ceiling, scattered in and around the lake, were people. Lots of people. Out on the water, in boats. Scuttling atop the surface of the islands. They were too far away for him to get any kind of a clear look.

Well, most of them were too far. One of them, as it turned out, was standing not five feet away.

Like the chairlift operator, this man wore a cobalt jumpsuit with a miner’s hat and headlamp. But he was also…different, somehow. Something was off. His eyes were too large. Too round. His nose was too flat, and his nostrils too wide. His skin was so pale it was almost translucent.

“May I take your coat, Sir?” the man asked, his arm outstretched.

Upon hearing the words, Ollie noticed that he was hot. Uncomfortably hot. The winter of just an hour ago had disappeared, replaced by steamy, humid air. He found himself nodding. Yes. Yes, that would be good. Suddenly, he had no greater desire than to hand over his coat to this strange, expectant person.

Ollie pulled his arms from the sleeves, watching his own body move as though seeing through someone else’s eyes. Three words—Where am I?—threatened to jump from his tongue. But he caught them just in time. If he was supposed to be there, if he had been invited, then he would know where he was. Asking the question would expose him as an interloper. No, better to remain silent, hide his shaking hands, and play along. He had to follow Laszlo’s instructions. Meanwhile, another three words—In too deep!—screamed and kicked in his mind.

The blue-suited man took the parka without comment and walked to a nearby wall, where he lifted it onto a hook. It hung next to another coat, which hung next to another, and another, and another. Black, olive, tan, gray, red. Short and long. Hundreds of them, stretched out into the darkness. Ollie stared at the interminable line and wondered: How long had they all been hanging there? Who had left them? And, most importantly, why had no one returned for them? He flashed on a few possible answers, none of which were particularly reassuring.

The man fluffed and smoothed Ollie’s coat, then pressed his foot against a pedal on the ground. With a grinding whirr, the hanging coats swung into motion, each moving a bit further away. The rotation reminded Ollie of a dry cleaner’s spinning rack. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the propulsion stopped. Ollie’s coat had shifted one spot to the right. And in its place, a new, empty hook had appeared in the rock wall, waiting for the next arrival.

How incredibly odd. The thought had scarcely surfaced when he noticed something else: A distinctive hunter-green coat, hanging ten or twelve hooks down from his own. Hunter green. Ollie darted past the protesting attendant and reached out to touch it. Thick, thrift-store wool. Golden buttons. Kind of scratchy.

Nell’s coat! It had to be! He wasn’t crazy. This wasn’t crazy! She was here!

He felt a firm tug on his arm.

“Sir, I really must insist…” the man said, looking perturbed as he lead Ollie away from the coats and back to his original spot on the platform. Then he asked, “Will you be requiring a wheelbarrow today?”

His mind still spinning, Ollie looked in the direction of the man’s outstretched arm and saw yet another line of half-rusted wheelbarrows. Of all the strange sights he had seen since falling through that hole in the sidewalk, the ubiquitous one-wheeled wagons were perhaps the most disturbing. What the hell was the deal with these wheelbarrows? And the rope, and the tape? And why did the sight of them send a shiver of revulsion up his spine?

“Uh, no. I don’t think so,” Ollie said.

“Very good, Sir.” The attendant folded his hands together and maintained a blankly pleasant expression.

“Okay, well…thanks,” Ollie said. He glanced again at Nell’s coat, as though it might impart some green-woolish wisdom. Some clues. Then he looked at his own. How would he get it back? With no tag or number, how would he prove which one was his?

The attendant’s tight smile didn’t invite further questions or conversation. His vacant stare gave only one, unspoken directive: Time to move along.

Ollie lifted a hand in a half-hearted wave and began to walk. As before, it was a one-way journey. With the chairlift platform and solid walls behind him, he headed toward the lake.

Each step was a potential hazard. Aside from the pale blue glow emanating from the tall ceiling, Ollie could see no natural light at all. The air was steamy and damp, with a smell like a musty, overcrowded barn. Moving beams—more headlamps, maybe—bobbed on the nearby islands. The boats in the water, similarly, had navigational rays that cut through the murk.

Ollie’s eyes began to adjust to the darkness as he approached a cluster of people and a row of boats bobbing in the greenish water. The vessels’ motors were enormous, far bigger than any motor he had ever seen. He peered at one of them as he got closer, then stopped, startled. It wasn’t a motor at all. It was, unmistakably, a bird.

Swan boats?

The other version, the regular version, was a Boston institution, ferrying tourists around the Public Garden pond every spring, summer, and fall. Each had an oversized white swan statue perched in the stern to provide a seat for the pedaling driver, while the passengers rode up front on rows of bench seats. These boats were similar—bird in the back, people in the front—but strange. For one thing, they were much smaller than normal swan boats, with only three rows of benches instead of six. And for another, these swans were black.

Each craft was tied to a post and accompanied by a loitering driver. The drivers looked bored; some talked amongst themselves, while others stared off across the lake or smoked on makeshift benches.

A dock! Ollie’s heart began to pound. Laszlo had told him to find the dock. To pay the driver. Well, here he was. He had found it! And soon, he would find Nell and get the hell out of there. He’d be the hero, she’d be grateful, and all of this aberration would be nothing but a distant memory. Bam. Smooth as Jordan almonds.

Almost done, he told himself. You can do this.

Taking a deep breath, Ollie headed toward the closest driver—a weaselly man wearing thick glasses. This man’s jumpsuit was beige and dirty instead of blue and clean. A toolbelt of sorts hung around his waist, strewn with a variety of unidentifiable objects and gadgets.

As Ollie approached, the man regarded him with a curious stare.

“Hi,” Ollie said, lifting a hand. “I’m looking for a driver. A captain, I guess. For a boat.”

“Uh huh,” the man replied. He didn’t seem especially eager to provide his services.

“I’m going to…” Ollie paused. What was the name of the place again? Herra-something… Like bend, or end… “Herrick’s End,” he blurted. “I need to go to Herrick’s End.”

The man raised one eyebrow. “You all by yourself, son?”

“Yes, just me. One. One for transport,” Ollie said, parroting the chairlift operator’s preferred terminology. “Can you take me there? I can pay.”

“Ticket?” the man asked.

“What?”

“Where’s your ticket?”

“I…don’t know.” Ticket? Laszlo hadn’t mentioned a ticket. “I can pay,” Ollie repeated.

The man held up a hand with a scowl. “No ticket, no ride. Not to there, anyway.”

“Okay, so where can I get a ticket?”

The grizzled driver snorted in disdain. Then he said again, “No ticket, no ride.”

Ollie straightened, simmering somewhere between confusion and embarrassment. No matter. There were other drivers. Six or seven more, all looking like they needed something to do. Surely someone would take him.

He approached the next stall, where a similarly dressed woman was leaning against a coiled rope railing. Her weight made the rope sag. She had the same bizarre facial features he had seen on the man who collected his coat. Her nostrils were unusually broad, as were her eyes.

He opened his mouth to speak, but she beat him to it.

“Ticket?” the woman asked.

Again, with the ticket. “Look, I have money. Plenty of money. I can pay you.”

“No can do, honey.”

“But, please! I can pay! Whatever it costs. Please. I just need a ride.”

“To Herrick’s?”

“Herrick’s End, yes.”

“Need a ticket to get there, honey.”

Ollie asked the next driver, then the next, moving down the line with equally bad luck at every stop. The chorus was the same from each driver: No ticket, no ride. Anger and frustration began to simmer in his belly. Laszlo never mentioned any tickets! Why not?

Ollie rocked back and forth on his heels. What the hell was he supposed to do now? Was there another dock? Another way? Could he swim? Could he walk? Walk where? All he saw were islands, and boats, and a vast expanse of puke-green water that seemed to spread in twenty different directions. Should he give up? Go home? Even if he wanted to, he didn’t know how. Somehow he doubted that Mr. Stick-In-His-Ass chairlift operator would let him board the ride for a return trip.

One of the drivers, he suddenly realized, was watching him. Last in the row. She was sitting, hunched, on a plank of wood. Her off-white jumpsuit was well-worn; he could see patches of other, darker materials sewn over various rips and holes. She was young. Younger than the others, at least. Maybe even younger than him. Her hair was dyed purplish-silver, shaved on the sides and swooped into a wave on the top of her head. Her skin was the color of sunbaked clay. She was smoking something that might have been a cigarette, though Ollie doubted it. When she exhaled, a long plume of sugary pink smoke emerged from her lips.

She stared through the smoke. Stared at him.

Ollie felt a surge of something odd: dread and hope swirling together like the two halves of a chocolate-and-vanilla soft serve. Before he could lose his nerve, he skipped the next driver in the row altogether and followed the pink smoke.

As he approached, the girl took another drag on her strange, hollow stick. She was studying his face, not even trying to conceal her fascination.

“Not from around here, are you?” the driver said. A small smile curled at the edges of her lips.

He shook his head. Was she mocking him? Ollie could swear she was mocking him, and he would know. This girl’s features looked more regular. More like his. Her eyes were brown. No giant nostrils or translucent skin. Just…normal.

She tilted her head. “What brings you to the Neath?”

Ollie tried not to cough as another plume of fuchsia smoke surrounded his face. The Neath? Had Laszlo mentioned that name? His mind raced. “I’m looking for someone,” he answered. “And I need a ride.”

“So I gathered,” she said, tossing her stick into the water. “To Herrick’s End, was it?”

Again, he bristled at her tone. It wasn’t anything overt. Just a slightly amused inflection, as though they were sharing a joke he didn’t understand.

“I have money,” Ollie said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the colored bills. “Plenty, see? You can have it all. Will you take me?”

The girl folded her arms. A curl of purple hair flopped onto her forehead. “You’ve been to Herrick’s before?” she asked.

For a moment, he considered lying, then thought better of it. “No.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why do you want to go there?”

“I’m looking for someone, like I said. A friend. She’s missing. Someone told me I could find her there.”

The girl cocked her partially shaved head and stared at Ollie for a long moment. She seemed to be studying him. Again. “I’m not supposed to take you without a ticket.”

He nodded. He knew.

The driver bit her lower lip, looking indecisive. Like the others, she wore a toolbelt around her waist that was festooned with various odds and ends. Ollie thought he recognized an umbrella. And an old-fashioned telescope of some kind. He was trying to puzzle out a third item when she held out an opened hand. “Lucky for you, I need the money.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then Ollie jumped forward to shove the wad of square bills into her palm. “Thank you!” he said, his voice rising in surge of relief.

“Shut up, would you? Krite.” The last word sounded like a curse. She grabbed his arm and pulled him close. “Be cool, all right? Nice and quiet. Just get in.”

Ollie hustled into the hull before she could change her mind. He stood awkwardly beside the three rows of bench seats, not quite feeling comfortable enough to sit down.

The girl made no eye contact with the other drivers, who watched her curiously. Instead, she untied the rope that bound the boat to the dock, hopped on board, and gave the rock’s edge a hard kick. Seconds later, the vessel floated out and away.

The driver flashed him an uncertain look. A miner’s light hung around her neck; she slid it onto the top of her head, squashing the wave of hair, and turned it on. Then she walked back to her post behind the plastic black swan.

Ollie was afraid to speak. Afraid even to move, as though he’d lured a squirrel with a peanut and didn’t want to scare it away. Fake it ’till you make it. For once, he might actually be advancing to the second half of the equation. I’m doing it, mom, he wanted to tell her, feeling almost giddy. I told you I would.

A sudden flapping movement jolted him from his reverie.

He stumbled backwards, smashing his spine against the metal railing. A giant, dark shape had risen up beside him. Two shapes. Wings.

Ollie’s gasp stuck in his throat.

Alive. The statue was alive.

The driver seemed not to notice his terrified reaction. Calmly, she climbed onto the bird’s back and grabbed a set of reins. “Here we go, girl,” she murmured.

In response, the bird unfolded its head and let out a shriek: Caw! Caw! Caw!

It was a crow. Not a black swan—a giant, horrifyingly cranky crow. Everything about it was huge, and dark: the beak, the feathers, the apple-sized beady eyes. Like the dead-but-alive falcon on the carousel, but bigger. Badder. This bird was as tall as Ollie, if not taller. And the driver, as far as he could tell, was riding it.

“Atta girl,” she said. “Here we go.”

Her voice had a calming effect. After the initial kerfuffle, the crow settled into a slow, beating rhythm, using its immense wings to propel the small boat through the water.

Ollie slammed his eyes shut and concentrated on his breathing. In, and out. In, and out. When he was able to speak, he peeled open one eye, then the other, and said, “That’s, uh, that’s a big bird.”

“This here’s Mrs. Paget,” the girl said, sounding proud. “She’ll get you where you need to go.”

Ollie nodded, unable to take his eyes off the wings. They had a spread of at least twenty feet. Their movement created eddies in the calm water below and hit Ollie’s face with repetitive gusts of wind.

This will all be over soon, he told himself, rubbing his palms against his thighs. Very soon. Giant birds, plummeting chairlifts, never-ending coat racks—maybe it was all some kind of dream, or hallucination. Maybe he’d been drugged. Maybe it was a test, or a penance: Pass the test, prove your mettle, avenge your poor, departed mother. Live happily ever after. Was he passing? God only knew.

The giant crow, apparently named Mrs. Paget, was looking at him. Like a predator sizing up its prey.

Thinking about prey made Ollie think, perversely, about his lost granola bars. Golden brown oats. Crunchy pecans. Touch of honey melting on the tongue. Two bars per packet, with a little pile of crumbs left at the bottom. Usually, when both bars were gone, he would tip the packet upside down and—

Ollie swallowed. He got to his feet. “I don’t suppose…is there any food? Where we’re going?”

She raised one eyebrow. “Food?”

“Yeah. A restaurant, or a market, or something?”

The girl stared at him. Then she said, “No.”

“Nothing at all?” He tried to hide his disappointment and failed.

“You do know where you’re going, right?” she asked, concern in her voice.

“Well, yeah. Yes. I mean, sort of.”

The driver looked doubtful. Then she pulled on the reins, which caused the crow to dip one wing and raise the other. The boat shifted direction. “How much do you know, exactly?”

“Some. I mean, not a lot, but…” He sighed and gave up. “Nothing. I know nothing. I only know that’s where she is. She’s there, and I have to find her and bring her home. That’s all I need to know. It’s like, a rescue mission.” Ollie folded his arms and stared out over the water. The murk was thick, as though he could reach out and scoop it up with his hands. The water, too, looked darker now that he was over it, less like pea soup and more like minestrone. Deep, brown, steaming broth.

Damn, he was hungry.

Looking down, he noticed black streaks on the white floor of the boat. They were rubbery and patterned, like tire marks.

“What’s with all the wheelbarrows, anyway?” Ollie asked.

She kept her eyes on the water. “What about them?

“I mean, what are they for? I keep seeing them everywhere.”

Clearing her throat, the driver said, “The women and the girls use them, mostly. For transport.”

“Transport of what?”

She gave him a long look. “Heavy things.”

In the distance, Ollie could hear vague clanging sounds and something that might have been voices. He assumed these came from the islands he had seen earlier, though now he couldn’t see anything except the steamy fog. And there, in the boat, he heard only the soft swish of the crow’s wings and the lapping sound of the water as it washed against the bow.

The driver was still watching him from the corner of her eye. Her expression was inscrutable.

“What?” he asked.

“Hmm? Nothing.”

“What?” he asked again. Clearly, this girl had something she wanted to say. And if he was about to become regurgitated meat for giant crow babies in some massive freakish nest, he figured he had a right to know.

The driver sighed. “Look, it’s none of my business. But…it’s not too late, you know. You can change your mind. You can go back.”

“Why would I go back?” Ollie heard an unflattering squeal in his voice. He didn’t want to admit, even to himself, that he liked her suggestion. “I’m almost there! I’m almost done, for Christ’s sake.”

“Weellll…” She dragged out the syllable skeptically.

“You told me you were taking me there. To Herrick’s End.”

“I am.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

The girl avoided his eyes. “It’s a bad place, that’s all,” she said.

“Bad, how?”

“Bad, bad. As in, not good. As in, you might want to rethink this little plan of yours.”

“That’s not very specific.”

She sighed. “Look, this place is…different. Different than the place you come from.”

“You don’t say,” Ollie replied, eying the eight-foot-tall bird. Then he looked back at the driver. “Wait, how do you know where I’m from?”

She gave a quiet laugh and stared straight ahead, into the darkness. “Where you’re from, there are restaurants. And holidays. And rock-and-roll, and sunshine, and special little parks made just for children to play.” She nodded at her avian friend. “And you have boats with white swans instead of black crows. Does that sound about right?”

Ollie shifted.

“You have seasons that change,” she continued. “Flowers, and bees. And tiny little round cakes. Sweet cakes. In different colors.” Her eyes moved to his face. “You can go back to all that, you know. It’s not too late.”

He saw a sharp sadness in her features that made him want to reassure her. “I know,” he said. “I will. I mean, I can. But first I have to find my friend. Then I’ll go.”

She smiled, looking rueful. “Almost there,” she said. “Last chance. I can still turn around, if you want. You don’t have to do this.”

Ollie looked up at her, feeling raw. He did have to do this. There was no way to make her understand: Nell was out there, somewhere. She was in trouble, and probably scared as hell. And he knew exactly what she was feeling. Ollie knew what it was like to be despondent, and powerless, and completely, utterly, alone.

He could have helped her before, and he didn’t. This was his last chance to make it right. To make so many things right. He saw a flash of grisly images—his mother, huddled behind the couch, hands raised like shields. Bright lights of an emergency room. Swollen lips. Splinted fingers. No. Ollie shook his head to dispel the pictures. As much as he would rather be anywhere else, he had to do this. He had no choice.

“She needs me,” he said.

“Why?” the young woman asked. She seemed to genuinely want to know.

Ollie sighed. If he were smart, he would just keep his mouth shut. But there was something about this girl. She was just so…so something. He felt like he could trust her. Which was ridiculous—he had just met her.

Finally, he gave in. “Because someone is hurting her,” Ollie sighed. “At least, I think someone is hurting her. I met a guy, who told me she was down here, and she should have been back already. She came here to escape, I think. Or get help, at this Herrick’s End place. Then the guy told me how to get here, and…” He didn’t bother finishing. She already knew the next part of the story.

The driver stared at him. He wished he knew what she was thinking. At the very least, she didn’t seem to be wearing an expression of disgust, or pity. She seemed to be listening. Considering. Appraising him like a bubble-wrapped vase on Antiques Roadshow.

Finally, she nodded. “You’re sure?

“I’m sure.”

“You’re a stubborn one, aren’t you.” It was more of a statement than a question.

“I guess so.”

“All right,” she said with a shrug. “Then listen to me carefully. You stay low, all right? And quiet. Don’t let them see you.”

“Who?”

“Anybody. You need to be absolutely invisible. Got it?”

Ollie nodded stiffly. She could see him, right? She knew he was six-foot-six and weighed ten kabillion pounds? In a list of tasks he was pretty much guaranteed to fail at, “staying low” and “being invisible” were right at the top. “And if they do see me?”

“If they do see you, then it’s too late,” the girl said, sounding grim. “And if anyone asks how you got here…”

He held up a hand, understanding. “I never met you.”

She gave a quick, short nod. “That’s right.”

Ollie scanned the horizon. He still saw nothing. “So, what is Herrick’s End, anyway?”

The driver didn’t answer right away. Then she said, “You have to think in opposites, down here. Everything is pretty much the opposite of what you’re used to. White bird, black bird. Aboveground, underground. Cold, hot. You see what I mean?”

He nodded.

“So you have to ask yourself, how did you get here?”

Ollie screwed up his face. “Well, I met a guy, and we had to buy a guidebook, then there was a weird hole-funnel thing in the ground, and—”

“No,” she interrupted. “I mean, how did you find us? How specifically?”

“I…I followed the Freedom Trail.”

The driver nodded, looking solemn. “And what’s the opposite of freedom?”

He caught sight of it then. The fog parted, the dim light illuminated the gloom, and the facade rose up in front of him like a soaring, breathing nightmare. And the moment he saw it, Ollie knew he had made a terrible, terrible mistake.