mortar. The floor is grey dirt compacted to the hardness of cement. In the darkness beyond the glow of Thud’s little lantern, she can hear scuttling, scampering and a squeaking like someone twisting a wet cork in a wine bottle. She is reminded all too vividly of the cat-sized rat that had run past her face the afternoon before, she can still see its malevolent red eye, like a drop of blood, and the wet yellow tusks.
Following as closely behind Thud as she can while avoiding being stepped on, which would be disastrous, she accompanies him to one of the walls. It is pierced, she discovers, by a row of deep, square windows. She can feel air drifting in through them and can hear a faint trickling from the stream outside. The bottom edges of the holes are on a level with her chin.
“Are there bars?” she asks in an anxious whisper. “It’s pitch black out there, I can’t see a thing. Can we get out?”
“Well, you can, but those holes look awfully little for me.”
“You mean you think you won’t be able to squeeze through?”
“I forgot I was a lot littler the last time I came down here.” He gestures to her. “Come get in front of me. I’ll lift you up. Slide through and see if you can tell where the ground is.”
Thud lifts Bronwyn onto the stone shelf. The window is about half her height in depth. She wriggles and finds her head in the open air. The black earth is only a few inches below her chin. As much by its smell as by its sound she can tell that the water is only a few feet away. She pushes herself backwards and drops back into the basement.
“The ground’s almost level with the window,” she reports.
“Good,” says Thud, as he runs his hand all around the perimeter of the square opening. Suddenly, with a grunt, he hoists himself into the hole. His broad, flat feet waggle in front of Bronwyn’s nose for a moment; then he drops back to the floor, with an appropriate, well, thud.
“It’s gonna be awful tight. Stay here for a minute.”
He vanishes into the dark before Bronwyn can utter a word.
Where does he think I’d go? she wonders. She can follow him by the lance of flickering light that ducks and shoots around among the black columns like a little comet. When it turns back toward her, with the looming black bulk of Thud behind it, she is reminded of the great steam locomotives she had seen in pictures ‘and which she desperately wanted to see in reality). Thud, she sees, has a big ball of black slime mounded in his hand, with thick drools dangling from between his fingers.
“I found a leaky oil pipe,” he says by way of explanation. “Hold the light, please?” She takes the tin cylinder and holds its beam on him as he smears the gelatinous substance over his equatorial circumference.
“All right,” he says, apparently satisfied with the mess he has made of himself. Once again he climbs into the window. He jams himself in tightly, his enormous spherical rear suspended above the floor like a balloon.
“Princess!” She hears his voice float in from one of the adjoining windows. She runs to it and lifts herself onto the slippery shelf, just barely avoiding cracking her head on the stone above. Slithering as quickly as she can, she pops her head out into the open on the other side. There is Thud’s head just a couple of yards to her left. It looks like a jack-o’-lantern sitting in a window. He calls her name again. “Stop doing that!” she hisses. “Someone’s going to hear you!”
“I need your help, please,” he whispers. Bronwyn extinguishes the lantern before crawling out onto the moist, gravelly soil, which is so close to the edge of the window that she is able to emerge on her hands and knees. She stands erect and hurries over to Thud. His little round head is at knee level, his arms and hands protruding on either side. “Take my hands, please,” he asks, “and pull as hard as you can. I’m only stuck a little.”
Bronwyn takes one of his wrists in each of
Following as closely behind Thud as she can while avoiding being stepped on, which would be disastrous, she accompanies him to one of the walls. It is pierced, she discovers, by a row of deep, square windows. She can feel air drifting in through them and can hear a faint trickling from the stream outside. The bottom edges of the holes are on a level with her chin.
“Are there bars?” she asks in an anxious whisper. “It’s pitch black out there, I can’t see a thing. Can we get out?”
“Well, you can, but those holes look awfully little for me.”
“You mean you think you won’t be able to squeeze through?”
“I forgot I was a lot littler the last time I came down here.” He gestures to her. “Come get in front of me. I’ll lift you up. Slide through and see if you can tell where the ground is.”
Thud lifts Bronwyn onto the stone shelf. The window is about half her height in depth. She wriggles and finds her head in the open air. The black earth is only a few inches below her chin. As much by its smell as by its sound she can tell that the water is only a few feet away. She pushes herself backwards and drops back into the basement.
“The ground’s almost level with the window,” she reports.
“Good,” says Thud, as he runs his hand all around the perimeter of the square opening. Suddenly, with a grunt, he hoists himself into the hole. His broad, flat feet waggle in front of Bronwyn’s nose for a moment; then he drops back to the floor, with an appropriate, well, thud.
“It’s gonna be awful tight. Stay here for a minute.”
He vanishes into the dark before Bronwyn can utter a word.
Where does he think I’d go? she wonders. She can follow him by the lance of flickering light that ducks and shoots around among the black columns like a little comet. When it turns back toward her, with the looming black bulk of Thud behind it, she is reminded of the great steam locomotives she had seen in pictures ‘and which she desperately wanted to see in reality). Thud, she sees, has a big ball of black slime mounded in his hand, with thick drools dangling from between his fingers.
“I found a leaky oil pipe,” he says by way of explanation. “Hold the light, please?” She takes the tin cylinder and holds its beam on him as he smears the gelatinous substance over his equatorial circumference.
“All right,” he says, apparently satisfied with the mess he has made of himself. Once again he climbs into the window. He jams himself in tightly, his enormous spherical rear suspended above the floor like a balloon.
“Princess!” She hears his voice float in from one of the adjoining windows. She runs to it and lifts herself onto the slippery shelf, just barely avoiding cracking her head on the stone above. Slithering as quickly as she can, she pops her head out into the open on the other side. There is Thud’s head just a couple of yards to her left. It looks like a jack-o’-lantern sitting in a window. He calls her name again. “Stop doing that!” she hisses. “Someone’s going to hear you!”
“I need your help, please,” he whispers. Bronwyn extinguishes the lantern before crawling out onto the moist, gravelly soil, which is so close to the edge of the window that she is able to emerge on her hands and knees. She stands erect and hurries over to Thud. His little round head is at knee level, his arms and hands protruding on either side. “Take my hands, please,” he asks, “and pull as hard as you can. I’m only stuck a little.”
Bronwyn takes one of his wrists in each of
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