Candy’s heart was thumping so hard she could hear her pulse in her head. Ten, fifteen seconds passed. She listened. The grass hissed all around her. Strangely enough, she’d never felt so alive in her life.
Another half minute went by. She was tempted to chance another peep above the surface of the swaying grass, to see whether Mendelson Shape was limping in her direction, but she was afraid to do so in case he was almost upon her.
Then, to her infinite relief, she heard eight voices all yelling at the same time:
Shape threw open his arms, his huge, iron-taloned claws spread as wide as five-fingered fans.
“
His eyes fixed upon Candy, and he let out a bloodcurdling cry at the sight of her. He spread his arms wide, and with swords in hand, he began to move toward her.
He didn’t run; he simply strode through the grass with terrible confidence in his uneven step, as if to say:
She turned away from the sight of his approach and pushed on the broken door. The hinges creaked, and there were a few moments of resistance, when she feared that fallen timbers on the other side might have blocked it. Then, with a deep grating sound, the door opened and Candy slipped inside.
Though there were plenty of holes in the walls, and the sun came through in solid shafts, it was still far chillier inside than it was out. The cold air stank of rotting wood. Large fungi had prospered in the damp murk, and the boards beneath her feet were slick with mildew. She slipped twice before she had even reached the bottom of the stairs.
The prospect before her looked dangerous. No doubt once upon a time the spiral wooden stairs had been perfectly safe to climb, but that was decades ago. Now all but a few of the railings had collapsed, and the structure which had supported the staircase had been devoured by woodworm and rot, so that it seemed the stairs themselves had virtually nothing to depend on for their solidity.
She peered through one of the holes in the wall, just to confirm what she already knew: Mendelson Shape was still advancing toward the lighthouse.
Unlikely as a safe ascent seemed, there was no way back now. Shape would be at the front door in just a few seconds. She had no choice but to try the stairs. She put her hand on the shaky bannister and began her cautious ascent.
Outside in the long grass, the John brothers watched the silhouetted form of the lady Quackenbush as she started up the stairs.
“She’s something special, that one,” Drowze murmured.
“What makes you say that?” Moot remarked.
“Look at her!” Drowze said. “Not many creatures of this wretched Hereafter would be so brave.”
“She’s half mad,” said Serpent, “that’s why. I saw it in her eyes, right from the beginning. She’s a little bit crazy.”
“So we send a crazy girl to do our handiwork for us?” Pluckitt said. “That’s not very heroic.”
“Will you just shut your
is
“You’re not…” Moot began.
“…intending to attack…” Pluckitt continued.
“…Mendelson Shape?” Slop went on.
“Not with
“Well—” said Mischief. “Unless somebody has a better idea?”
“He’s twice our size!” said Sallow.
“Three times!” said Moot.
“He’ll tear out our heart,” said Slop.
“Well, we can’t leave the lady Quackenbush undefended,” Mischief replied.
“I vote we run,” Moot said. “This is a lost cause, Mischief. At least if we get away now, the Key’s safe with us. If we throw ourselves into the fray we’re not just endangering our lives—”
“—which are
“—we’re endangering the Key,” Moot reasoned. “We can’t afford to do that.”
“Moot’s right,” said John Sallow. “We’ve got a chance to run. I vote we take it.”
“Out of the question,” Mischief remarked. “She’s risking her life for us.”
“As I observed,” Sallow replied. “The creature’s half mad.”
“And as
So saying, Mischief set off running through the grass toward Mendelson, his little knife at the ready.
As he came within six or seven strides of his target, Shape sensed his presence and swung around, the swords whining through the air. His mouth was wide and foamy, as though he was working up an appetite as he approached the tower. The pupils of his eyes had gone to pinpricks, giving him an even more monstrous expression. His aim was poor. The blades missed the brothers by a foot or more, simply lopping off the feathery heads of the prairie grass.
Mischief just ducked down and doubled his speed, running at the enemy.
“Everybody—”he said. “Give the
“EEEIIIGGGGORRRAAARRGUU—”
—that even Shape hesitated, and for a moment looked as though he might retreat.