The Ever Breath Page 5

  Truman looked around at the room. A potbelly stove, a tiny stone sink, cupboards, a square table with one lonely chair, a lantern sitting on the windowsill, a small bed stacked with quilts. He thought of Camille’s snow globe with the little hut inside it and the woman peeking out the window. The room looked how he imagined the inside of the hut to be. And the snow globe woman had cats on her shoulders. Could … could this be the same hut?

  He looked over at one of the creatures, poised on the table, who’d picked up a piece of deep red fruit the size of a mandarin orange, and watched it peel the fruit open, just the way Truman would—first digging in a thumbnail and then pulling away the rind like bits of thick leather. Truman pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, hoping things would be clearer. But it didn’t help. The animal cocked its head and stared at Truman as if they knew each other.

  “Were you the one calling to me in the snow?” Truman asked finally.

  The animal nodded and held the fruit up, offering him some.

  “No, thanks,” Truman said, not sure what to make of any of this. “Are you all cats?”

  The mewler nibbled the fruit in its hands. “Mewlersss,” it hissed, and the others echoed, “Mewlersss, mewlersss, mewlersss…”

  “Mewlers?” Truman said, trying the word out. Could these mewlers be the kind of creatures that were kicked out of the Fixed World? If they were, then could this really be the Breath World itself, the one from his grandmother’s story?

  Behind the potbelly stove there were three mewlers knitting. Each had a ball of blue yarn and needles. They seemed to be making woolen hats.

  “Hey,” Truman said to the mewler eating the fruit, “my grandmother has one of those hats.”

  “Hatsss, hatsss,” one of the knitting mewlers hissed, and the other knitting mewlers repeated, “Hatsss, hatsss, hatsss …”

  Just then, Truman heard a buzz, and three large flying bugs zipped past his face. Their wings sounded electric. One of the mewlers leapt from the table onto Truman’s shoulder, trying to swipe at the bugs in midair. Instead the mewler hit Truman’s glasses and sent them flying across the room. Truman groaned, but when he looked around, everything came into sharp focus—without his glasses on.

  He was stunned. He took a moment to drink in the room with real clarity. But then another mewler leapt right on top of the snow globe in Truman’s arms.

  “Hey!” Truman said. “Watch out!” He stumbled backward and accidentally stepped on a paw. That mewler let out a violent screech and the others hissed, arching their backs.

  “Sorry!” Truman said, inching back toward the tunnel. Maybe these creatures were kicked out of the Fixed World for a very good reason. Maybe they hated humans. “I think I should go home now. I’m not supposed to be here.”

  Then, from the other side of the room, there was a loud snort. “Who is it? Back again? Not this time!” The bed that Truman had thought was covered with quilts actually had just one quilt, covering a small, pudgy woman who was now rustling awake. She grabbed a rolling pin from under the pillow. “Listen here! I’m armed! And me mewlers are set to attack!” She waved the rolling pin blindly in the air.

  The mewlers, taking their cue from her, became aggressive. They started grabbing Truman’s legs, their claws digging through his pajama pants into his skin. He toppled over and they pounced on him. “Stop it!” he shouted. “Get off of me!”

  “Where’s Praddle? Is she home yet? Praddle?” the old woman was calling. Was this the mewler who’d led him to this terrifying place? “Who is it, mewlers? Who is here? Another thief?” And then Truman felt a hand reach into the pile of mewlers and pull him up by his pajama top.

  For a brief moment, he was face to face with the old woman. She stared at him with her large eyes, one of which was a shocking bright blue and the other shiny and black—not an eye at all, really. It was more like a large, shiny black pearl!

  And then Truman, gripping his snow globe with both arms, let out a scream—so sharp and high and sudden that it surprised even him. The old woman was shocked too, so much so that her hand sprang open, releasing Truman, and the mewlers all reared back.

  Just as Truman scrambled to his feet, one mewler jumped and landed on his back. He had no time to shake it off. He hurled himself toward the front door, flung it open, and ran out into the dark, snowy night.

  “Praddle!” the old woman was crying into the wind. “Praddle! Come back!”

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Rider’s Cloak

  With the swirling snow globe clutched to his chest and the creature on his back, Truman ran through the snow, dodging trees, jumping and stumbling over dips and roots. His heart was pounding in his ears. He could barely see in the dark. The snow was coming down fast. He kept running until he found the courage to glance behind him. No one was following—except the mewler hitching a ride on his shoulder.

  “Get off!” Truman shouted breathlessly, and then he doubled over, his hands on his knees.

  The mewler slipped off Truman’s shoulder.

  Truman looked at the mewler. “You’re that cat that got me into this in the first place. Aren’t you?”

  “Mewlerrr,” she said.

  “Your name’s Praddle, right?”

  Praddle nodded.

  Truman sat down on a rock, set the snow globe by his side, and rubbed his icy feet with his hands. “Well, Praddle, any idea on how to get me out of this?”

  Praddle wrung her hands and shrugged.

  The wind whipped Truman’s hair and ruffled Praddle’s shiny fur. Truman closed his eyes and tears slid from the corners. And when he closed his eyes, he saw the image of two eyes—one blue, one a black pearl. “Was that woman Swelda’s sister?” Truman whispered. “Ickbee?”

  “Yesss!” Praddle hissed.

  “Why did she want to kill me?” Truman cried.

  “She wasss being sssafe!” Praddle hissed.

  “Really?” Truman snorted. “She was about to bludgeon me with a rolling pin!”

  “She’sss been waiting for you!”

  “She could have shown more hospitality,” Truman said.

  “You should go back to herrr!”

  “I’m not going back there. No way.” But where was he going? It was dark and cold and snowing. “I’ll probably get frostbite and have to get my nose amputated,” he muttered. He thought about Camille and wished she were with him. She’d know what to do. She’d read enough books about disasters to know something about how to survive.

  Praddle hopped on a log, pointed downhill, and mewled in that partly human way she had back in Swelda’s yard.

  Truman shook his head. “I’m not falling for that again!”

  Praddle hopped down and tugged at the leg of his pajamas, then pointed and mewled louder.

  “This better be good.”

  Praddle pointed again, and Truman could see that there was a break in the trees. They were on a mountain. He walked to the log, climbed on top of it, and peered down into a valley. There he saw lights, lots of them, all clumped together. “A city!” he exclaimed. “Maybe I could get help there. Maybe someone knows how to help me back.” But then he noticed how very far away the city was—through trees and across meadows, along a river. “It’s too far,” he said tiredly. “I’ll never make it tonight. I’ll freeze to death.”

  Praddle hopped up and down on the log, mewling, and then climbed off the log and slipped into its rotted-out center.

  Truman knelt down at the mouth of the log and stared inside.

  “Warmmm, warmmm,” Praddle purred.

  “Are you saying we could sleep in there?” Truman asked. “I’d get claustrophobic. Plus, we couldn’t both be in there at the same time. I’m allergic to pet dander, and—”

  “Shhh!” Praddle whispered, her finger held to her lips.

  Truman heard a ruffle of feathers overhead. Grossbeak? he thought for a second. But then he looked up and saw a flock of strange birds soaring through the sky. The flock passed in and out of the fog,
through the snow. The birds had bloodred hoods, long gawky necks, and hooked ivory beaks. Large talons hung under their meaty feathered ribs, and in their talons they carried round metal cages. The cages had creatures in them—Truman couldn’t make out what they were. He saw hands gripping the bars, but also snouts and muzzles wedged between the bars, glimpses of fur and feathers and scales.

  “What are those birds?” Truman whispered.

  “Vulturesss,” Praddle hissed.

  One vulture, which had a tufted white back, didn’t have a cage in its grip. It was skirting the edges of the flock. Suddenly it dipped closer to the ground, and Truman could see that what he’d thought was a tuft on its back wasn’t one at all. It was a small person wearing a long iridescent robe, and he—or she—was riding the bird like a horse, but without a saddle or reins, handfuls of feathers in each fist. As the bird passed, Truman saw a long curved sword.

  “Who is that?” Truman asked.

  Praddle stared and shook her head. She didn’t know.

  As if the rider had heard Truman, the bird reared and turned back, circling toward the valley and the fallen tree where Truman stood, his breath caught in his throat.

  Praddle mewled, and then darted into the hollow log.

  Truman quickly dropped to the ground, grabbed his snow globe, and shimmied into the log where Praddle was now curled up in a tight, shivering ball. The vulture dipped so low that Truman could hear the ruffling of its wings. It landed right in front of the log.

  Truman saw the bird’s scaly talons and then the small leather boots of its rider and the hem of the rider’s robe, which twitched and wriggled. The robe was alive, made of shimmering white bugs with delicate wings. They looked like pale, glistening locusts. Each summer, Truman saw locusts on the ground in his neighborhood, tapping at the dirt and cement. They were loud at night, trilling in the trees. But it was winter now. And why would anyone want a robe made out of bugs?

  Did the rider know that Truman was there? Truman and Praddle were silent, barely breathing. The rider pulled out a sword, paced in one direction and then the other, and then the pair of boots—very small black boots—stopped right at the mouth of the log. Truman was afraid that the rider would be able to hear his heart, which sounded to Truman like a drum.

  The rider’s robe started to twitch and flutter as if the locusts were impatient to leave. Truman peered from the log and watched one of the bugs spread its wings in a quick flutter. And when the wings lifted, Truman saw the dainty body of a tiny person—not the body of a bug at all. A fairy-sized person. She turned her head, and Truman saw the profile of her quizzical little face.

  The robe itself let out a rising, chirruping cry.

  “Hushhh!” the rider hissed.

  The bugs fell silent.

  Then the rider climbed back atop the bird, and the bird took its great loping steps, raised its great wings, and flew up into the sky.

  Truman held the snow globe to his chest and gave a sigh.

  “Bewarrre,” Praddle mewled.

  “Who was it?” Truman asked.

  Praddle shivered. “Sssomeone to fearrr.”

  “The robe,” he said. “It looked like it was made out of locusts, but one of the locusts had a face.”

  “They all have facesss,” Praddle hissed. “Locussst fairiesss.”

  Truman felt Praddle’s warm fur on his feet. It was dark in the log, but snug and safe. Each time Truman closed his eyes, the rider’s sword flashed in his mind. He wished his father were here. He wanted to hear the song his father sang to them every night, and so he sang it, ever so softly, under his breath:

  “Sleep, slumber, sweet slumber ba-ru.

  Sleepy-seed, sleepy-seed, dew.

  Snug cover and pillow, hear the hush of the willow

  And I will stand dream watch over you.”

  He sang it again and again until, with crunchy leaves for a pillow, he finally fell asleep.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Wild Browsenberries

  When Truman tried to roll over and couldn’t, he remembered that he’d spent the night inside a log. He opened his eyes and blinked at the bright day. The world was miraculously clear and crisp and in focus. Truman had always woken up to a blurry world. He’d always had to reach for his glasses on his bedside table and slip them on before he could make anything out. But right now, he was looking out of the mouth of the hollow log at the shiny black fur of Praddle’s coat, at the snow outside, at the ghostly outlines of trees against a cloudy sky. He didn’t understand it, but he was ecstatic.

  Truman crawled out into the bright sun and stood up. “I can see!” he told Praddle. The ground was layered in white. It was cold, but the snow had stopped. He hopped up on the log and looked down into the valley again. The fog had climbed higher up the mountain, and Truman gazed down at the miniature-looking houses and buildings, the crisscrossing streets. There was a river that wound through the outskirts, and it was dotted with boats and barges. And farther out of town, there were farms—white-blanketed pastures and fields, staked with fence posts.

  For a moment it seemed that he could be looking at a valley in the Fixed World. His parents had once taken them to the Blue Ridge Mountains, and this wasn’t all that different. He knew, of course, that he’d climbed through a tunnel into a strange world. But had he imagined vultures carrying creatures in cages, the old woman with the black pearl eye? And the mewlers—maybe they hadn’t had human hands at all.

  Truman felt a tug on the leg of his pajamas, and there was Praddle. She was holding a jacket and a pair of slippers, both woven from long, thick pointy leaves—holding them with her human hands.

  “Mewl-mewl,” she said.

  And then it hit Truman that he was really here in the Breath World, lost and cold and now hungry too, and Praddle was his only friend. “Are these for me?”

  She nodded.

  He took the jacket and tried it on. It felt a little stiff and the leaves tickled his arms through his pajama top at first. But the jacket was woven so tightly that it blocked the wind. “Thank you, Praddle!”

  She smiled and shrugged.

  He slid his feet into the slippers. They fit perfectly and were warm and dry.

  “How did you make all of this?”

  Praddle fiddled with her hands as if to say Like this!

  She scurried to some nearby bushes and started plucking berries.

  “Breakfast?” Truman asked.

  Praddle nodded.

  The berries looked like little fuzzy moons. “Browsenberries,” he said. “I’m usually allergic to berries, but…” Truman wanted to test a theory. What if this really was the Breath World and the Breath World really was Swelda’s home-land, and she really did import all of her foods from this world, and, for whatever reasons, Truman wasn’t allergic to things here? Only one way to know. He popped a browsenberry into his mouth, and as soon as he bit into it and the berry burst and his mouth filled with its tart juice, he remembered, vividly, a tiny bit of the tasting tale: All those magical creatures—the ones you see now only in dreams and stories—used to walk among us. He knew in an instant that this was exactly the thing he’d been tasting when Swelda said those words.

  “Praddle,” Truman said, “have you ever been told a tasting tale?”

  She smiled and nodded quickly.

  “Okay, then later, after you hear a tasting tale, if you eat something that was served to you when you were being told that tale, do you remember it exactly?”

  Praddle nibbled her berries and gave a nod.

  Truman ate another handful of berries and Swelda’s words echoed again in his mind: All those magical creatures—the ones you see now only in dreams and stories—used to walk among us. …

  “Praddle,” Truman began, “do … do you have dragons around here?”

  “Dragonsss?”

  “You know, lizardlike creatures with small wings and sometimes horns and long tails who breathe fire?”

  “Oh, fire-breathersss. Yesss.”
r />   Truman felt a prickle of fear. “What about unicorns? Like deer but they only have one horn?”

  “One-horned boundersss,” she said. “Of courssse.”

  “Mermaids? Half woman, half fish?”

  “Bogpeople,” she said. “Very muddy.”

  “Elves? You know, little people?”

  “Yesss, urfsss.”

  “What about centaurs? Half horse, half human?”

  Looking a little tired of all the questions, she just sighed and spread her arms out wide in one big swooping gesture that Truman took to mean, We have them all!

  Truman shook his head. “It’s hard to believe,” he said. He felt scared and hopeful, both at once. You come from the long line—that was what his grandmother had said. Did that long line go all the way back to this place? Was his father here, somewhere? Could he find him?

  Praddle tapped the snow globe. “Thisss wasss Ickbee’sss.”

  “Oh, right,” Truman said, remembering that Swelda had written that in her note. “It’s kind of a strange gift. It has a man in it who’s just been stabbed. It’s a little morbid. Not your regular Christmas tree and snowman. See?” He pointed to the scene and ate some more berries. All those magical creatures—the ones you see now only in dreams and stories—used to walk among us.

  Praddle leaned in and then looked up at him, confused. She shook her head.

  “What is it?” Truman asked.

  Praddle tapped the snow globe again.

  He lifted it up and looked more closely. The snow was settling in a small, dark, cluttered room with lots of velvety drapes—what seemed to be a museum. There were taxidermied creatures wall-mounted or standing midgrowl and mid-claw or, in the case of winged creatures, strung from the ceiling midflight. There were lots of variations—horns, beaks, thorny tails, ridged backs, tightly curled tusks, human-looking gazes. There was even a full-sized fire-breather, its wings unfurled, its fangs bared.