The Ever Breath Page 7

  Camille shook her head.

  “The Ever Breath was protected by an enchantment cast on Ickbee’s house and mine,” Swelda whispered. “But someone broke the enchantment and the Ever Breath is gone. Have you noticed that this house is about to fall in?”

  Camille glanced around. “Well, I didn’t want to say anything, but—”

  “That’s why your father went to the Breath World. To find the Ever Breath. He will need you two there, to help return the Ever Breath to its rightful place.” And then she snapped her fingers over her head. “Oh, yes. I almost forgot,” she said. She walked quickly to the bookcase, pulled out a heavy tome, and took out a small photograph. She handed it to Camille. “You might need this.”

  It was a picture of a boy about Camille’s age. “Who is it?”

  “It’s your father when he was twelve years old. We haven’t had any communication from him for a few days. He’s been in dangerous territory, trying to get the Ever Breath back. I’m sure he’ll be fine. But when you see him again, this is the person you’ll be looking at in the Breath World. Your father as a boy.”

  Startled, Camille looked up at Swelda. “What do you mean?”

  “We all have our magical afflictions.”

  “Magical afflictions?”

  “Your father is a forever child. He could have lived in the Breath World and stayed a boy forever. But he chose not to.”

  Camille held the photograph and stared at the image of her father. He looked a little like Truman, actually. She felt as if the fog outside had moved into her head. She felt dazed and scared. “But Truman and I aren’t magical,” she said slowly.

  “Ah, but you come from the long line!”

  “You said that before but we didn’t get it. The long line of what?”

  “Gramarye,” Swelda whispered. “It’s an ancient term. Do you think that when the magical creatures were separated and cast out—the Exodus, as we say—do you think that those who could perform a bit of magic, those who could both enchant and curse, were allowed to stay here?”

  “I guess not,” Camille said.

  “You are of the Breath World, yes, a magical creature and one who can do some magic. Your magical afflictions just haven’t shown up yet, not in full.”

  “I’m going to get magically afflicted. Is that what you’re saying? I mean, I knew we were kind of dysfunctional, but afflicted?”

  “It’s part of growing up in this family.”

  “Or part of not growing up,” Camille said, shaking her father’s photograph.

  “I guess that’s true, in some cases.”

  Camille put the photograph in the zippered pouch of her backpack and then looked down at her shoes. “I’m not sure I’m really the one you want doing this. I mean, I’m not as tough as I look.”

  “You’re exactly the one. No one else in the worlds will do.” Swelda then took off her blue woolen hat and put it on Camille’s head. “Keep this with you. That way they’ll know you’re one of us. Ickbee will answer any other questions.”

  Swelda pulled Camille’s coat off of the hall tree. The tree—it was such a strange thing. It couldn’t really be alive, surviving there in the dark house. Camille reached out quickly and touched its bark. It was as rough and real as that of any tree she’d ever touched. The tree seemed sickly, but alive. Very much so.

  “Does this tree blossom in the spring?” Camille blurted out as she put on her coat.

  “Of course! Beautiful pink blossoms. They carpet the hall for weeks! And clog the vacuum cleaner!” But then Swelda’s face grew serious and she patted the tree’s trunk. “I hope it blossoms this year!” She then turned to Camille and gave her a quick hug. “Go quickly now. No time to waste.”

  With a backward glance at the tree, Camille went to the front door and twisted the knob—which fell off in her hand. “Here,” she said, and handed it to her grandmother.

  “Thanks,” Swelda said. She pushed open the front door and Camille stepped into the bright snowy world.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  King of the Jarkmen

  The next time Truman rounded the corner to catch up with the young man in the blue woolen hat, he smacked right into a bony chest and fell backward onto the ground. Praddle screeched, and Truman bobbled the snow globe. It nearly slipped from his hands.

  “So sorry!” a voice from above said.

  Truman looked up and there, standing over him, was the man in the blue woolen hat. He was younger than Truman had thought—only in his late teens or maybe his early twenties.

  “Are you okay?” the young man asked. “Nearly broke that, didn’t you?” He extended his hand. Truman took it, and the young man helped him to his feet.

  The man pulled his thin coat in tight to his ribs and yanked the blue wool hat down over his ears. “How’s the mewler?” he asked.

  Truman brushed off Praddle’s fur and scooped her up. “She’s okay, I think.”

  “Good to hear. All right, then. Glad all’s well. Have a good day.” And with that, the young man headed on down the road.

  “Wait!” Truman called. “Hold on!” The young man was striding away quickly. Truman ran to catch up. “Sir,” he said. “Um, excuse me!”

  The young man turned around. He was very thin—so thin he’d had to tighten his belt to the last notch to keep his baggy woolen pants up. He had brown eyes—gentle eyes, really—and a nervous smile.

  “Where are you going?” Truman asked.

  “For a walk around the block. I’ve got a dinner appointment at Edwell’s, but I’m early.”

  So it was almost dinnertime. Truman hadn’t realized how long it had taken to get down the mountain. No wonder he was hungry again. “Can I walk with you? I’ve got a few questions.”

  The young man looked over his shoulder. “I don’t like questions,” he said. “They seem to always want answers.”

  “Just a few.”

  He hesitated. “What’s your name?”

  “Truman. And this is Praddle.”

  “I’m Artwhip,” the young man said, and then a locust fairy orbited his head. “Dang locust fairies!” he exclaimed, waving his hand around. “They can’t seem to get enough of me!”

  The locust fairy buzzed Truman, who pivoted and ducked. “They like me too,” Truman said.

  “So we have something in common.” Artwhip cast his eyes over the crowd, then gave a stiff nod. “Okay, kid. Come on.”

  Truman tried to match the young man’s stride. “Where did you get that hat?” he asked.

  They were walking down an alley, a shortcut back to the open-air market. The alley was dark. Strung overhead were carpets being aired, and they batted about in the cold wind, blocking Truman’s view.

  “This? It’s just a present from my mother. Well, I think it’s from my mother. My landlady gave me the package this morning. It came with a note, but the landlady spilt chatter-broth tea all over the note while snooping, most likely.” He paused. “Well, that’s not fair, I guess. She’s only got paws, though, so she’s clumsy like that.”

  “Oh,” Truman said, thinking that paws for hands would be a difficult way to go through life. “Does your mother knit?”

  Artwhip shrugged. They’d come to the end of the alley and now moved into the crowded market. “Don’t all mothers knit?” He looked at the boy. “I thought you were going to ask me for money. I thought, well, in those strange clothes, the homemade jacket and shoes … Look, do you just want the hat? The weatherspy is predicting more snow.” He stopped and peered up at the sky.

  Truman looked up too. “I don’t want the hat,” he said. “It’s just that … I’ve seen you before.”

  “You have?”

  “I think I’ve seen a future version of you.”

  Artwhip stopped and stared at Truman and gave a quick laugh. “You’re a futurist, then?”

  “A futurist?” People rushed by them. The hawkers were all shouting at the same time. Someone in an apartment overhead was practicing scales on a squeaky hor
n. “Something bad is going to happen,” Truman said.

  This seemed to get the young man’s attention. “To me?”

  “Yes,” Truman said. “I think it was you. I’m almost positive.”

  Artwhip walked up to a news peddler—a fish-man with fluttery gills on his cheeks and neck, watery eyes, and a drooped, whiskered face. “Do you know what time it is?” Artwhip asked the peddler.

  “Did you see the latest edition?” the peddler shouted at him, holding up a copy of a newspaper called The Official Facts, Presented to You Daily by the Office of Official Affairs. The man’s booth had one of the posters on it: the tough feathered man with the hawk’s beak glaring above the slogan US VERSUS THEM! THE DIFFERENCE IS SIMPLE! “They just put this news on the streets!”

  On the front page of the newspaper was a photograph of a boy with a weary expression but neatly combed hair—a cross between a mug shot and a school photograph. The boy looked familiar. Truman leaned in closer. The brown hair, the look in the boy’s eyes—he was the boy that Truman had seen inside his snow globe. He was sure of it!

  Artwhip read the headline aloud: “‘Cragmeal, King of the Jarkmen, Public Enemy Number One.’”

  “Cragmeal?” Truman said. That was his family’s name! He leaned forward and started reading the news story.

  Cragmeal, former King of the Jarkmen—a society of traitors that the Office of Official Affairs has officially dismantled—has been spotted in numerous locations.

  A traitor to his own people, Cragmeal deserted his post as king to live in the Fixed World. Now he is back to wreak havoc in our own land! He has been seen with blood-betakers, were-creatures, and other enemies of the Office.

  “We intend to capture Cragmeal, once and for all. It is our sworn duty here at the Office to keep all of you safe!” declared Wilward Dobbler, President of the Office of Official Affairs this morning.…

  Truman stared at the grainy photograph. Was it his father, as a boy? The boy bound in that awful museum and this boy, here, in the photograph? He felt breathless, the same way he’d felt when he fell into the cellar. It was like the beginning of an asthma attack. He reached for the inhaler he kept in his pocket, but of course he didn’t have it. His inhaler was in the pocket of his jeans at Swelda’s house, a world away.

  Was his father a traitor, Public Enemy Number One? It wasn’t possible. He glanced at Artwhip, who was leaning over him reading the article as quickly as he could. Truman wondered what would happen to him if the people here knew that Cragmeal was his father. And what did the article mean, “former King of the Jarkmen”? His father wasn’t ever a king. He was the manager of three Taco Grills.

  Praddle gave a hiss and tightened her grip on Truman’s shoulder. She didn’t like what she was reading either.

  “They’re gonna get’m, but good,” the news peddler said, and then he whispered to Artwhip, “What side do you stand on?”

  Artwhip gave a little shake of his head. He wasn’t saying a word. Truman had the feeling it was a dangerous question.

  The peddler didn’t wait for an answer anyway. He said loudly, “What kind of king was he anyways? Disloyal! A traitor to his people. Runnin’ off like he did. And now he’s back, lurking around, consorting with our enemies!” The news peddler’s teeth were jagged and his words sounded wet. He splayed his hand over the article and leaned in close to Truman’s face. “Stealing it with your eyes, are you? You don’t get to read it for free!”

  Both Truman and Artwhip stepped away quickly.

  Truman remembered the tasting tale. He felt it stirring inside him. If the Ever Breath fell into the wrong hands, everything was in jeopardy. In the Fixed World, dreaming and imagining would end, and in the Breath World, imagination would take over in bad ways, with evil beasts rising up—a kind of self-destruction. Truman grabbed hold of Artwhip’s sleeve.

  Artwhip looked shaken. He gazed around as if disoriented. Sitting in a cage nearby was the man in the tweed suit from earlier. They’d circled the city and now were back in front of the spice shop.

  The man in the tweed suit saw Artwhip’s hat and sucked in his breath. Quickly, he rolled up his sleeves, revealing arms covered with blinking eyes. “The hat!” the man whispered. “The blue hat!”

  Artwhip ran his hand along his hat and then looked at Truman. He seemed tired and confused. “I’ve got to be going now,” he said, and then he bowed politely and headed off.

  “You can’t leave me!” Truman cried, running after him.

  Artwhip dipped beneath the paper lanterns bobbing in the gusts of wind and hurried back down a cut-through alley strung with carpets.

  Truman followed. “Wait! You’re going to get stabbed! I’ve seen it!”

  “Stabbed? Me?” Artwhip said, over his shoulder. “Thanks for the warning. All the more reason for you to leave me alone.”

  “One more question,” Truman shouted down the alley.

  “No more questions!” Artwhip said.

  Truman stopped running. He stood in the alley and shouted, “Is Cragmeal a traitor like the man said?”

  Artwhip stopped in his tracks. He turned around and dipped under a strung-up carpet so that he and Truman were face to face. He looked at Truman, standing there, breathless, and whispered, “I still believe in Cragmeal. I’ve devoted myself to the cause.” He lifted his shirt and revealed the hilt of a dagger—the feathered head of a snake, just like the one on the crest in Swelda’s parlor, the one with the crown of feathers like Grossbeak’s.

  “What’s that mean?” Truman asked.

  “I’m a jarkman,” Artwhip said. “A revolutionary.”

  Did this mean that Truman’s grandmother was a revolutionary? “You’re for Cragmeal?”

  “He’s my king, but I’m new.” Artwhip balled up his fists and shoved them in his pockets. “I’m awaiting orders, but I think they’ve forgotten about me, or worse.”

  “Worse?”

  “It’s been twelve years since we had a king to lead the jarkmen. We’ve been losing members and faith. And then the news spread that Cragmeal was back.” Artwhip shrugged, helpless. “But where is he now? Will the jarkmen believe people like the news peddler? That Cragmeal’s a traitor? Maybe we’re falling apart. Maybe there’s no longer a chain of communication. Maybe so many of us are caged up that it’s all over.” His eyes were wide and watery. Truman hoped he wasn’t going to cry. Truman felt like crying himself and he knew he couldn’t. Not now. There was too much at stake.

  He walked up close to Artwhip and whispered, “I think I know where Cragmeal is. Are there any museums in this world? Dark ones with stuffed creatures and chopped-off fingers in glass cases?”

  Artwhip stared at him. “Chopped-off fingers?”

  At that moment, bullhorn speakers crackled. Then they squawked one of their prerecorded warnings: “The enemy may be among us! The threat level is five. We repeat, five. Please report any suspicious behavior. Turn in information about any suspected jarkmen. This message comes to you from the Office of Official Affairs.”

  Artwhip and Truman looked up at the speakers, which were attached to the corner of the building at the end of the alley.

  “What are they talking about?” Truman asked. The speakers were repeating the warning. Truman hated the crackle, the droning voice, the electrified nervousness.

  “Five is the highest level, but it’s always a level-five warning. Why have levels if it’s always set at the highest?” Artwhip said, shaking his head.

  “What is the Office of Official Affairs?”

  Artwhip blinked. “Where are you from? Up in the highlands? You don’t know what the Office is?”

  Truman shook his head.

  “The Office of Official Affairs has divided all of us into the Officially Good and the Officially Evil, trying to make us believe that there are only two types of creatures. To protect the Officially Good, the Office has to do away with the Officially Evil.”

  “How can they tell the Officially Good from the Officially Evil?”
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  “Ah, well. It’s simple.” Artwhip raised his finger. “The Officially Good agree with the Office of Official Affairs, and the Officially Evil don’t.” He lowered his voice. “But the Office doesn’t seem to have any real idea of what it means to be truly good—kind, brave, thoughtful. My father wants to achieve Official Goodness—to have his name, Archimeld P. Ostwiser, written on a folder, filed away in the Office of Official Affairs, with all of his important dates and distinctions and a wax seal pressed onto the documents so that he’s good and he can prove it.” He paused and took a deep breath. “The problem is that this desire to be Officially Good is the thing that allows my father to pass through the cage-lined streets and separate himself from the caged creatures. And that, Truman, is the most dangerous element of all! Do you understand?”

  Truman nodded, but he wasn’t sure he understood any of it.

  Artwhip clapped Truman on the shoulder. “I haven’t eaten anything but watery stew and old lard cakes for weeks. You’re hungry too. Aren’t you?”

  Truman nodded again. He felt like he was starving, actually. He’d had nothing but berries all day.

  “My father’s in the restaurant around the corner right this moment. He’s probably inspecting his teeth in the reflection on his cutlery. When I walk in there, he’s going to tell me that I’m too skinny and I should get a real job in his department at the Office of Official Affairs so I can fatten up and live a normal life.” Artwhip put his hands on his hips and let out a great sigh. He looked at Truman. “But if you’re there, maybe it’ll distract him a little.”

  “I can be very distracting,” Truman said.

  “Good, because they’ve got great food—fatty rinds of beef, broiled beet-nuts, stuffed mutton, bee ale, goose-egg chowder, potted cheeses, and chunks of sugar-crusted angel bread the size of my fist!”

  Truman opened his mouth to tell him about all of his allergies, but then he closed it. Things were different in this world. “Thanks,” he said. “I’d love to come.”

  “Okay, then,” Artwhip said. “Bring the mewler too. The best thing about my father is that he always picks up the tab.”