The glass went clear. The words were gone.
CHAPTER 5
Return to the Wood;
A Fugitive of the Wastes
“W
E ARE DOING WHAT WE CAN, WITH WHAT TOOLS ARE AVAILABLE TO US. THE WORKERS ARE SAYING THAT THE RECONSTRUCTION SHOULD ONLY TAKE A FEW MORE MONTHS, BUT I’LL BELIEVE THAT WHEN I SEE IT.” The inflection of the voice could only come from one species, the moles of the Underwood, and Prue had a hard time containing the happiness she felt to hear it once again. Besides, the despotic rule of Dennis the Usurper had long been washed away, and what had been left in its wake resembled nothing if not a peaceable and just society—something that Prue herself had helped bring into existence. She felt like she had a stake in the well-being of this strange subterranean civilization.
The speaker of the words had been the Sibyl Gwendolyn, the de facto queen of the Underwood, and she was describing the lengthy rehabilitation underway to bring the City of Moles back from the near rubble it had been reduced to during the Great Siege that had removed Dennis from power. The walls had been reconstructed, and the neighborhoods of houses and buildings, razed by a torrent of fire arrows, were in the process of regaining their old shapes. The Fortress of Fanggg itself, Gwendolyn said, was to be repurposed as a city park and public space—renamed the Fortress of Prurtimus after the city’s trio of saviors. “THE VIEW FROM THE TOP IS SAID TO BE EXTRAORDINARY.” The Sibyl smiled ironically; the moles of the Underwood were, of course, quite sightless.
Prue and Esben had been received with great pomp and clamor—it was Esben, after all, who had rebuilt the massive underground city the time before, after the destruction of the Seven Pool Emptyings War (it was clear that the moles of the Underwood lived their lives in a constant shuttling between states of war and peace). The bear’s return was welcomed with all the display that would befit a hero of state. In fact, he was currently helping rebuild a particularly complex suspension bridge while Gwendolyn gave Prue a tour of the scaffolding-laced city under construction.
“I wish we could be here for the great unveiling,” said Prue. “I’m sure the party will be spectacular.”
“OH, IT WILL,” said Gwendolyn. “WITHIN REASON. WE CAN ONLY AFFORD SO MUCH CELEBRATION THESE DAYS.” She paused, as if scanning the middle distance from the balustrade she stood on, just below Prue’s eye level. “BUT YOU HAVE BIGGER THINGS TO ATTEND TO.”
“Yep,” said Prue.
“I TRUST YOU KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOING.” Gwendolyn turned to face the area of the city where Esben, towering over his fellow engineers, was holding up the suspension cables of the bridge, while the moles at his feet were busily erecting the twin towers that would support the roadway.
“We have a plan,” said Prue. “I think.”
It was only later, the following day, after Esben and Prue had bid farewell to the moles, that they started to reckon with the great tangle that was this master plan. They’d just arrived at the long, dark passage that would lead to what the moles called the Overworld, under the guidance of Gwendolyn.
“I’d prefer not to do that again,” said Esben, finishing a long harangue about violence and his particular squeamishness toward it. His attack on Darla, it turned out, had been the only time he’d ever used his hooks to harm another soul; they’d been designed by the moles to help him and those around him, not to hurt them.
“Right,” responded Prue, her hands running absently along the ancient brickwork that lined the tunnel walls. “I’d prefer you didn’t do that again too.” Still, the idea of parading Esben, the exiled machinist, around South Wood brought concerns for their safety—not just from those elements who were supposedly out to revive Alexei for their own gain, but perhaps the old allies of the Dowager herself, who might not take kindly to this scofflaw returning to freedom.
“PERHAPS HE SHOULD WEAR A DISGUISE,” put in Gwendolyn. The diminutive mole was leading the way, some few feet in front of them, navigating the endless forks and intersections that interrupted their path like it was no more than a casual morning commute.
Prue craned her head over her shoulder to take in the towering form of the brown bear, illuminated behind her by Esben’s lantern light, and tried to imagine a mustache or a hobo costume rendering the creature unrecognizable. “I don’t know if that would work so much.”
“I could put on an accent,” suggested the bear. “Something foreign.” He then began a string of sentences in what might’ve been the most bizarre and unrecognizable attempts at a dialect that Prue had ever heard; one part German and another part southern belle, the bear’s voice seemed to straddle continents, and Prue erupted into laughter before he’d even finished his display.
“What?” Esben himself was stifling a laugh. “It’s transatlantic.”
“WHAT IS TRANSATLANTIC?”
“Do you even know what the Atlantic is?” Prue asked Esben.
“Yes,” said Esben, playing affronted. “It’s in the Outside. Somewhere.” He paused, thinking, reviewing geography. “Ships sail on it.”
“Not going to work,” said Prue.
“BUT IF HE IS OUT IN THE OPEN, HE WILL BE FOUND,” said Gwendolyn.
“That’s the trick,” said Prue, chewing on her lip in thought. “The tree said others would be trying to rebuild Alexei for their own devices. We have to keep Esben safe from them.”
“AND TO WALTZ HIM AROUND THE OVERWORLD WOULD BE AKIN TO SIMPLY FLASHING THE WORLD YOUR POKER HAND.” Gwendolyn turned and smiled at Prue, clearly proud of her Overworldian analogy; she was a well-traveled and worldly mole, this Sibyl.
“Right, Gwendolyn,” said Prue. “We need to keep those cards hidden.”
“Until we find Carol,” put in Esben.
“Yep,” said Prue.