Chapter Thirteen

When Worlds Collide

The cavern burned bright—hundreds of torches being held by hundreds of beings lit the wide space like a tunnel of Goth love. Rants and nits and cogs and all other beings stood shoulder to shoulder quietly holding up the lights. The scene smelt like a campfire where someone had thrown something plastic into the flames. An acrid, burning scent drifted back up the tunnel looking for more oxygen.

At the head of the line stood the map of glass, lit beautifully from the fire. The swirling colors shifting over it were mesmerizing. The map cast shadows and waves of light up against the cavern walls. It also showed quite clearly the current course one could take to walk through the water and get out of Foo.

The three overly protective thorns buzzed around the map, making sure nobody touched it.

“Read, if you want,” the black thorn buzzed, warning the crowd. “But if you touch her . . .”

“She’s not just yours,” the green thorn argued.

“She’s more mine than yours,” the black one said.

“You’re both thick in the heart,” a brown thorn said. “Look how she gazes at me.”

All three thorns looked at the map.

Next to the map, trying to ignore the thorns, wearing a soft yellow wool sweater and a corduroy cap, hunched the Dearth. He had on felt pants with patches at the knees, and his bare feet were woven into the soil he needed contact with to live. He had a bushy mustache and kind old eyes. In fact, Leven’s having chopped him in half in his true form had unwittingly made the disguised Dearth that much more endearing. Now the old man walked hunched over and holding his back, looking like the spokesman for some very mild English tea. The Dearth lifted his right hand, and everyone aside from the thorns grew quiet.

“This is it,” the Dearth commended them. “You’ve done well.”

Loud cheers echoed off the walls of the cavern as the excitement rolled like a wave down the line of all those who wished to get out of Foo.

“For years I have whispered from the soil,” he said. “And now, in a few moments, all that we have fought for, all that we have dreamed of, will be ours. We will walk through and possess the soil of Reality. Move quickly—the waterways will stay clear for only three days and it is the desire of all to touch the dirt of Reality. And you will—”

“Die!” a voice screamed as a nit broke from the ranks and shoved a small knife toward the heart of the Dearth. “Long live Foo.”

Before the man could reach the Dearth, hundreds of thin black strands shot out from the dirt and wrapped around the man’s arms and legs. The nit tried to scream, but the strings of ooze quickly wrapped him up like a spider encasing a fly. The black wad was dropped to the ground in front of the map, where it sank into the soil.

“Some people are so shortsighted,” the Dearth tisked. “Anyone else wish to complain?”

Even the thorns were quiet.

“Good,” the Dearth clapped. “Now, let’s put that out of our minds and begin our final march.”

The crowds cheered. The map shifted just a bit, and the thorns praised it. The Dearth observed the change and marked a paper he had in his hand.

“We should be there shortly,” the Dearth said, turning and heading into the darkest part of the cavern. “I will mark the trail for those who follow.” Those in the cavern were all too happy to do just that.

After a couple of hundred feet the cavern narrowed just a bit, and a large torch hanging on the wall was singing a song about curiosity.

Next to the torch was a gigantic wooden door. The door was over fifteen feet tall and as wide as the cavern. There was a large carving of the land of Foo on the wood and the illustration was current, showing the gloam reaching all the way to Sycophant Run. Beneath the wooden doorknob was a large keyhole. The Dearth reached out and twisted the knob.

It was locked.

There was a small murmuring from behind him, but the Dearth quickly pulled out a key that was hanging from a cord around his neck. The key was gold, with two circular swirls at the end and two large metal teeth. It was a copy of the key that had belonged to the sycophants.

The Dearth fingered the key and slid it into the lock. A crisp clicking sound like that of a gun loading sounded throughout the cavern. The Dearth turned the key, and the lock turned and tumbled in a series of clacks and snaps. The Dearth reached out, and this time the knob twisted easily and the door popped open with a gust of wet wind bellowing in.

The crowd cheered as the Dearth and two cogs pulled the door all the way open. The Dearth then stood with his right hand raised and his eyes on the long line of refugees.

“This is it,” he said. “I am not a sentimental being, but this is a step that so few thought would ever be taken.”

The cheer was much louder.

“Come,” the Dearth waved. He walked through the large door. In the distance, a shimmering square of weak light seemed to mark the way.

The Dearth walked quickly, consulting the map in his hands whenever tunnels branched off. There was not much talking, but the sound of feet scraping the trail and shoes clomping down gave the air an urgent and bustling feel.

“The light,” the Dearth said. “It’s water.”

The trail became an invisible cavern running right through water. The liquid flowed in waves above and beside them. The path glowed where the Dearth moved.

“Don’t touch the sides, and follow carefully,” the Dearth said.

The Dearth shuffled speedily through the tunnel of water, following the path that the map of glass had pointed out. If he had possessed a heart, it might have jumped right out of his chest. But he had no heart. And if he’d had a brain he might have been too giddy to think straight. But he had no brain. In fact, all he really had under his facade was an unending, wicked desire to see everything but the soil obliterated. He couldn’t wait. He was growing sick of pretending that he cared, and he longed with all his non-heart for the day when not a single nit, cog, human, rant, or any other being existed.

He was a simple man, with a simple wish that was about to come true.