On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness Read online

  “Tink,” Oskar said. “You like to draw, don’t you? Come with me. As I recall I have an extensive collection of art books that you might find helpful.” And he wandered into the maze of bookshelves.

  By the time they caught up with Oskar, the light was fading and he was fumbling with lanterns for each of them to carry through the store.

  The book spines looked richer somehow in the lantern’s glow, and Janner thought of Oskar’s words at the start of the day: “Look around you, lads. This is the best of the old Skree. Or at least, it’s what’s left of it.” He was eager to roam the store, agonizing over which three books to borrow.

  “This way, young Tink,” said Oskar. “I’ll show you where to start, then you’re on your own.” With a helpless look at Janner, Tink lifted his lantern and followed Oskar down the corridor out of sight.

  Twice, Janner and Tink rounded a corner and nearly crashed into one another, but eventually they took their own ways deep into the labyrinth of shelves.

  Tink found two art books, one of fantastic landscapes the likes of which he’d never dreamed, and the other an anatomy book that taught how to draw a chorkney in any number of positions.3 He was still seeking book number three when his foot bumped something. He saw the snot-wax candle on the shelf and realized he was standing right where Janner had tripped earlier. He lowered his lantern to the floor for a closer look.

  A narrow panel had come loose on the bottom of the shelf where it met the floor. Janner’s foot must have bumped it.Tink bent to shift the panel into place, but his eye caught something in the shadows of the cavity below. He reached in and slipped it out just enough to see it was a rolled-up parchment, yellow with age and dusty.

  Tink’s heart quickened. He looked back down the aisle, wishing Janner was nearby. Nothing. Then he scanned the aisles in the other direction, but all he saw were rows of books fading into shadows.

  “Janner!” he whispered.

  Silence. There’s no telling where he is, Tink thought. He scanned the aisles again. It was his first day helping at Books and Crannies, and he already felt like he’d tried Mr. Reteep’s patience. Tink didn’t want to upset the proprietor any further, but his curiosity was maddening.

  He took one last look in each direction, set the lantern on top of his art books, and carefully pulled the parchment the rest of the way out.

  Fingers trembling, Tink unrolled it.

  18

  Stumbling onto a Secret

  The map was drawn with a careful hand and remarkably detailed, though riddled with tiny holes. Tink recognized the Dark Sea of Darkness, complete with little drawn sailing vessels. He saw a road that led from some cliffs to a little cluster of buildings, all neatly rendered and labeled. He bent closer to read by the yellow glow of the lantern: FERINIA’S FLOWER SHOP, JAIL, and MY BOOKSTORE.

  He realized with surprise that he was looking at a map of Glipwood, drawn by Oskar N. Reteep himself.1 With his finger he traced the main road toward the cliffs to the lane that led to the Igiby cottage, and sure enough, there it was. It was even labeled IGIBY.

  Across the top of the map was scrawled, “In the immortal words of Loshain P’stane, ‘If anyone reads this without permission, he will be most certainly and brutally slain. Or at the very least I’ll chop off a finger or two. Or three.’”

  Tink wrung his hands as his heart shriveled with fear and the parchment started to roll shut. With trembling fingers, he smoothed it out again.

  Near the top of the map, at the edge of the forest, was a house labeled ANKLEJELLY MANOR. Over the house was a large X, and beside it, this was written:

  Be you friend or be you foe

  Beware to all who follow

  For in the catacombs below

  Is hidden in the hollow

  A way that leads to pain and woe

  Sadness, grief, and sorrow

  The hungry ghost of Brimney Stupe

  Awaits your bones to swallow

  So think you long before you go

  Exploring here tomorrow

  Tink jolted as the dreadful sound of Oskar N. Reteep’s heavy footsteps came thudding toward him. Panicked, he rolled up the map, slipped it up his shirtsleeve, grabbed the lantern and his art books, and reached for a random book from the shelf in front of him.

  Mr. Reteep’s round figure turned the corner and floated into the lantern light just as Tink pulled the book from its place on the shelf.

  “Ah, young Tink! I see you’ve found your books. What have you got there?” He squinted at the two art books, and then at the third. Tink stood still as a stone, praying that Oskar wouldn’t notice the funny way his shirtsleeve was bulging.

  “The Art of Itching,” Oskar read. He looked over the top of his spectacles at Tink and raised an eyebrow.

  Tink knew that he was caught. He wondered whether or not Mr. Reteep would actually slay him or if he’d show mercy and merely cut off a finger. But which finger? he wondered. And what kind of instrument would the old man use?

  “Is something wrong?” Oskar asked, narrowing his eyes at Tink. “You’re hiding something.”

  Tink’s face went pale and he felt as though he might faint.

  “I understand, boy,” Oskar said. “It’s a very private thing. And as a matter of fact, it’s none of my business is it?” Oskar lowered his voice and leaned toward Tink with a hand at the side of his mouth. “But if you’ve got an itchy rash of some sort, there are much more extensive books on the subject than The Art of Itching. Believe me, I’ve read them all.” Oskar cleared his throat. “If you know what I mean.”

  Tink was so overcome with relief, he could barely speak. He forced a laugh, set down the book he’d just grabbed from the shelf, and with the free hand scratched at his belly and armpits. “Oh, I do know what you mean, sir. Ha. Ha-ha-ha.”

  Janner walked around the corner with three large books under his arm, frowning at Tink’s odd behavior.

  Tink stopped scratching as Oskar turned and approved Janner’s selections, and before Tink knew it, he found himself walking out of the store with his brother, map up his sleeve, thankful that he still had all ten fingers.

  It was nearly dark when Janner and Tink began their short walk home, and Tink could barely contain himself. He waited just till they were an earshot away from Books and Crannies and blurted, “I stole a map!”

  Janner stopped in the middle of the street. “You what?”

  “I didn’t mean to. It’s in my sleeve right now, so I stole it, but I didn’t mean to, I promise,” Tink stammered, looking around.

  Janner stared at his brother in shock. “Keep walking, make sure you don’t let that thing show, and tell me what happened.”

  They walked fast down Main Street, past the jail where a dozen Fangs lurked, yet felt no fear. Tink was too excited to tell what he’d found, and Janner too absorbed by the story to notice Slarb the Fang watching them closely from the jail’s porch with hatred in his eyes.

  Commander Gnorm stood behind Slarb, but he stared down the street as though waiting for something.

  “And I’d just read that whoever looks at the map without permission would get their fingers cut off, when I heard Oskar coming,” Tink panted.

  “There must be some kind of mistake,” Janner said. “Can you imagine old Mister Reteep cutting off someone’s fingers?”

  It was Tink’s turn to stop in the middle of the street. “Yes,” he said, eyes wide, head nodding.

  “Well, I can’t,” Janner said. “He’s a kind old man.”

  “You haven’t seen the map,” Tink said, shaking his head. “When we get home, you’ll see for yourself.”

  A sudden, steady clop-clop-clop of hoofbeats and rattle of rein and bridle stopped the Igibys—a sound that curdled their blood. A whip cracked in the dusky air, and the brothers turned to see a shadowy carriage round the bend at Dunn’s Green, driven by a figure in a black robe.

  Janner grabbed Tink’s arm, and they ran around the side of The Only Inn and flattened themselves a
gainst the wall. Janner closed his eyes to shut out the evil, but his head echoed with the sound of the approaching carriage. In his mind, he could see the iron bars and the pale arm of the black-robed driver swooping down to snatch him and Tink and lock them in the cage.

  He opened one eye to see Tink peeking around the corner.

  “What are you doing?” Janner hissed.

  “Look! It stopped in front of the jail,” Tink whispered over his shoulder.

  Janner stayed put. “What’s happening? Is it the Black Carriage?”

  “I can’t tell…wait… Commander Gnorm’s talking to the driver…”

  Janner could stand it no longer. He peeked around the corner and saw the two horses stamping the ground and snorting. The hooded driver addressed Gnorm, then slithered down from the seat and opened the carriage door.

  Janner sighed. The door wasn’t made of iron, but of dark, polished wood. No crows perched on the carriage roof or circled above. It wasn’t the Black Carriage at all.

  Gnorm heaved himself into the coach and made himself comfortable. The door clicked shut and, with another crack of the whip, the steeds heaved. The carriage lurched forward, turned, and departed just as it had come, while the rest of the Fangs watched from the street.

  But not every Fang.

  “And how isss your lame little sister and that mutt of hers?” a familiar voice hissed into Tink’s and Janner’s ears.

  19

  Pain and Woe and Sorrow

  Tink and Janner spun around to see Slarb in the shadows, his black eyes like two empty wells. They cried out and backed away into the street as he emerged from the darkness, teeth bared.

  “It’s time to finish what I started yesterday, boysss.” Slarb clacked his teeth together hungrily. He cocked his head sideways and considered Janner and Tink for a long moment.

  Janner thought he looked just like the snout-snake he’d once seen in the pasture. It had reared its neck back and cocked its head sideways just before striking dead an unfortunate field mouse. So this is the end, Janner thought.

  Commander Gnorm or no, Slarb was going to kill them right then and there.

  “Slarb! Are those the Igiby woman’s boys?” called another Fang from the jail porch. “Gnorm will stew you alive, if you come between him and his maggotloaf!”

  Slarb sneered at the Fang on the porch and hesitated. Then he spat at Janner’s feet. Little tendrils of smoke rose from the toe of one boot where the venom landed.

  Janner resisted the urge to scream and rip off his boot.

  Slarb snarled and seemed about to spring but, with a sullen look at the other Fangs, instead slunk back into the shadows behind The Only Inn.

  Janner and Tink turned and raced home.

  Oskar’s mysterious map seemed of little importance. Living in a land crawling with Fangs was bad enough; now they had an enemy of one—and the only thing keeping Slarb from killing them now was the hope that Gnorm would find their mother’s maggotloaf agreeable.

  Janner and Tink each felt their spirits lift when they arrived at the cottage, however. The fire was burning, the lanterns were lit and the smell of a pot roast filled the air. Podo was napping on the couch beside the hearth, snoring so loud the windows rattled.

  Tink slipped quietly to his room and hid the map under his pillow just as Nia called for supper.

  When Janner and Tink sat down at the food-laden table they realized how tired they were. They told about their day, the crate from Dang, and the Annieran journal. Janner thought it odd that Nia and Podo were very interested in everything the boys had to say until they mentioned the journal. Janner saw them exchange glances, then his mother abruptly changed the subject.

  What could that mean? Janner wondered whether his mother and grandfather were suddenly keeping secrets from them, or if he was just now beginning to notice something that had always happened.

  Leeli interrupted his thoughts. “Have you seen any music books hidden away at Books and Crannies? I’d very much like to see one.”

  Janner laughed. “If Oskar doesn’t have a hundred music books, I’ll eat a worm.”

  When they talked about their encounter with Slarb, Podo made several promises to kill the Fang in several different ways.

  Nia reminded them that every few months the Fang regiments were replaced. “It won’t be this way forever. We just need to lie low and hope that my maggotloaf is truly horrendous.”

  “Maybe you should let grandpa cook it then,” Tink said, spooning more roast onto his plate. “His totato porridge turns my insides to woodchips.”

  Everyone but Podo burst into laughter.

  “What’s the matter with my totato porridge? Scrumptious!” His eyebrows were raised so high they blended in with the rest of his hair. “A pinch of wortroot, a dash of cornpepper—WOODCHIPS, you say!” The more Podo protested, the harder the rest of his family laughed.

  “Scrumptious!” Podo said again with indignation. He folded his arms across his barrel chest and thrust out his chin. But even Podo couldn’t keep from laughing. His lips quivered like jelly, then a grin spread across his face, and soon he was slapping his knee and roaring with the rest of them.

  Janner couldn’t remember the last time they had laughed so hard, and he knew, as they all did, that they weren’t laughing at Tink’s comment so much as they were laughing because their fear-weary spirits needed it like medicine.

  Finally, like a fit of rain that comes and goes and leaves everything damp and shining, the laughter stopped.

  “Did you bring home anything interesting from Books and Crannies?” Nia asked, wiping the corners of her eyes.

  Tink’s smile vanished. He gave Janner a hard, pleading look that begged him not to tell about the stolen map.

  “Tink,” Janner said, looking innocently at his brother. “Is there something you want to say?” Tink glared at Janner, shaking his head as subtly as he could manage. When he didn’t answer, everyone looked up from their plates. All eyes were on him.

  “Tink, what is it?” Nia said. Tink’s cheeks flushed and he glowered at Janner.

  “Speak up, lad! Your meat’s gettin’ cold,” Podo said.

  “Well, see, I found…I found…” he stammered and hung his head so low that his hair nearly dipped into his plate of roast.

  “He found an itchy rash,” Janner said, grinning as he filled his cup from the water pitcher. “Has it spread to your armpits yet?”

  Tink’s head whipped up. “What? No. Not yet.”

  Janner winked at him, but Tink wasn’t laughing.

  Podo demanded to have a look at Tink’s rash right there at the dinner table, and to Janner’s enjoyment, the interrogation regarding the rash lasted the rest of their meal.

  Convinced that Tink was fine, that the rash was probably just his imagination—something brought on by stress, Podo allowed Tink to go to his room.

  “It’s just a little stressful to know your fingers might be cut off,” Tink muttered to himself once safe on his bunk.

  “Maybe one of those could go in the maggotloaf,” Janner said, laughing. “You know, your grubby fingers might make an excellent addition to the recipe.”

  “That’s not funny,” Tink said.

  A melody from Leeli’s whistleharp came from the main room, where she was playing a rousing sailors’ tune at Podo’s request.

  Janner and Tink climbed up to the top bunk and spread out the map. They read and reread the inscription beside the building labeled ANKLEJELLY MANOR, trying to imagine what might be hidden there that would make Oskar keep a secret map.

  Tink shuddered at the line in the poem about the ghost of Brimney Stupe. “I don’t like ghosts,” he said.

  “Come on, Tink. Ghosts aren’t real.”

  “That’s what you say. Podo says he’s seen ghosts.”

  “Well, he told us he saw an abandoned ship on the Dark Sea of Darkness with a crew of ghost pirates,” Janner said, “and he also said that he’d been awake for three days straight. You see strange th
ings when you don’t sleep.” He shook his head. “Ghosts aren’t real.”

  “What do you think all these little pinholes are all over the map?” Tink asked.

  “I dunno.” Janner shrugged. “Probably from mice. Or bugs. Look!” Janner pointed at an image of a dragon in the bottom, right corner of the map. “Does that look familiar to you?”

  Tink shook his head.

  “Remember the Annieran journal in the crate from Dang? That looks like the same dragon.”

  Tink pointed to an inscription above the dragon. “The Jewels of Anniera,” he read, his face puzzled. “What are the Jewels of Anniera?”

  Janner shrugged.

  “I don’t know, but I’m sure Mister Reteep has a good reason for keeping the map hidden. And for hiding the Jewels of Anniera or whatever’s in Anklejelly Manor. One thing is for certain. I don’t mean to find out. It’s too close to the forest, and even before the war that place was creepy. It’s been abandoned for years.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I read about it in a book on the history of Glipwood,1 and Podo said the place was haunted, that people heard noises coming from inside. It’s been avoided for so long that no one remembers who built it, or even who Anklejelly was. I’ve never even seen the place. According to the map it’s a ways north of town, right at the edge of the forest.”

  Tink stared out the window into the night. “If we left right after lunch tomorrow, we’d have time to—”

  “Are you crazy?” Janner interrupted.

  Tink stared blankly at his brother, who looked at the door and lowered his voice.

  “No way.” Janner shook his head.

  Tink’s eyes twinkled. “You’re the crazy one. How can you find a treasure map and not want to find the treasure?”

  “It doesn’t say ‘treasure’ anywhere on this map! In two days we’ve been in fights with two Fangs, thrown in jail, and almost taken for a ride in the Black Carriage. You’ve stolen a map, and Slarb’s informed us that he means to kill us all! And now you want to follow a map to a haunted house near the forest because of a riddle that says that it leads to pain, woe, and sorrow?”