Hawthorn Read Free Page B

this guardian down there?” Helen asked, looking nervously into the dark tunnel.
    Yes, yes, yes, the guardian is always here, since before and forever. He guards against the shadow-things but he won’t harm two humanlings. . . .
She flitted back to us and brushed her wings over our faces again.
Humanling and . . .
She cocked her head at me.
Half-bloodling.
    â€œHey!” Helen said. “Don’t call her that!”
    â€œThat’s what I am,” I answered. “Half-human, half-Darkling. Will this guardian of yours have a problem with that?”
    Oh no,
the lampsprite chirped.
He’s been waiting for you.

    We followed the lampsprite—whose name was an unpronounceable word that Helen decided sounded like Primrose—deep into the tunnel, her light illumining the walls in fitful bursts.
    â€œAre you quite sure there’s a back door to this place?” Helen asked. “I don’t know how much longer I can walk on this ankle. It seems like we’ve been walking forever.” She peered down at her wristwatch and shook it. “My watch seems to have stopped. It must have broken when I fell.”
    I withdrew my automaton repeater from my pocket and opened it. Two figures—a winged man and woman—hammered out a frantic little melody and the watch hands spun backward. “Primrose,” I began warily, “these tunnels . . . are they . . .”
    â€œAt an end!” Helen cried pointing toward a light at the end of the passage. “Finally!”
    I followed Helen into a large domed chamber. “Oh! I thought we’d come out, but it’s only a room of sorts.” She was turning around in a circle, looking at the walls, which were so grown over with thick, twisted roots that we seemed to be in a basket. In fact, the roots seemed to be moving, creaking like a wicker laundry basket when you pick it up. I looked around for a door but couldn’t find one. I turned around to point this outto Primrose, but my eye was caught by a long pale root with a strange pattern in its woody fiber—almost like a face. I could make out two eyes—large pale celery-colored eyes that blinked at me.
    I started back and bumped into Helen, who clutched me with one hand while pointing her dagger with the other. “What
is
it?” Helen asked, her voice trembling.
    Primrose flitted over to the root and brushed her wings against its face. At the touch of her powder the root creature yawned and stretched its long limbs, which hung in the thatch like a scarecrow hanging on a pole.
    â€œAre you sure you want to wake it up?” Helen asked, watching the root man warily.
    The guardian never sleeps,
Primrose chirped,
only waits.
    The guardian must have been waiting a long time. He was so knitted into the fabric of the roots that he was having trouble pulling his arms free. I wondered if we ought to run, but then, where could we run to? The only way out led to the pit with the shadow crows. I decided we might as well help him.
    â€œCan we give you a hand?” I asked, holding out my hand to the creature.
    He blinked his celery-colored eyes at me, and his face—which looked rather like a rutabaga—crinkled into a smile. “Thank you,” he said in a creaking voice. He laid his long thin hand in mine. It was cool and limp, like wilted carrots, but then he squeezed with surprising strength and pulled himself free of the roots in one splintering burst. Dirt and moss fell to the ground along with a dozen centipedes and worms. When heunfolded himself to his full height he towered over Helen and me. He brushed dirt from his long cloak, revealing it to be more green than brown and embroidered with runes and sigils. The symbols resembled the ones in the carvings.
    â€œMy stars, it’s been a long time since I had a visitor,” he said, looking down at his tattered, dirt-stained cloak. He bowed to Helen and me.