THE BLACKBERRY WITCH: chapter 23

All chapters of The Blackberry Witch

XXIII. The Grotto of Gilroy’s Folly

Led by Finlay the fisherman, the group set out along the riverbank once more. Elwood had finally left behind the ox-bone after much persuasion and promises that they would return to finish it off. Avery perched on Thomas’s right shoulder, testing the strength of his wing now and then by flying in a short loop about the boy’s head. Cathán alternated between riding on Thomas’s left shoulder and on Finlay’s, asking the fisherman dozens of questions about life on the river and the other humans and animals he had encountered.

Thomas’s sleepiness following the hearty meal of eel-skin soup had been burned off by the prospect of finding the forbidden grotto at last. This day was the last before his appointed meeting with the witch—most of Tuesday remained before him, bright with sunshine in the middle of autumn, the wind carrying the gentlest premonition of the coming winter. He had Tuesday to find the shell, and Wednesday to save his sister.

After a minute, Thomas hurried to walk abreast of Finlay, Elwood trotting close behind. “It sounds like there are many grottoes along the eastern river,” Thomas said. “Do you know of any others? What are they like? And what’s the forbidden grotto like?”

“Well, other than knowing the fishing-grounds outside the forbidden grotto, I can’t say much,” the fisherman replied. “I’ve never been inside. I don’t even rightly know its name. You see, all these grottoes—and there are perhaps a dozen in this region that I’ve heard of—have their own names and designations, titles passed from one fisherman or traveler to the next. Most of the names come with fanciful backstories as well, but it’s my understanding that the grottoes have very little in common with their namesakes in most cases.”

“Like Mídhel,” said Thomas. “That’s the town where I live, just west of here. Dún told me once that the town was named after a princess who used to live nearby. When Princess Mídhel died, giants carved out a grave for her and buried her under the earth. The grave was so large that plants and animals and eventually people settled in the valley it created. That’s the Valley of Thistles. Briar’s Peak was the stone the giants placed to mark the princess’s burial-place.” Thomas paused. “But I’m not sure how true that is, or if it’s just a nice reason to name the village after a princess.”

Finlay nodded. “That’s precisely what I mean about the grottoes. They’ve all got myths associated with them. I’m not one to question the old stories—I’ve seen a fair few peculiar things in my young days, and everyone knows the ancients were far more magical than we’ll ever be.” He winked at Thomas. “But even so, I haven’t been able to discern a connection between any of the grottoes and their names. They’re just watery caves with moss and fishes and, sometimes, good fishing-grounds for eels.”

“What are the names of the others you’ve heard?” Cathán asked.

“Oh, let’s see. The Grotto of the Vengeful Tide—that can’t be the eastern river, though, because everyone knows that happened on the seashore. The Grotto of Blackfin Bay. Has a nice name and no mistake, but seems a little fishy to me, if you’ll excuse the wordplay, for who ever heard of a bay within a river? And then, of course, there’s the Sirens’ Grotto. Near as I know, sirens haven’t been seen in these lands in a century.”

Thomas suppressed a shiver. “Those do sound like exaggerated names for grottoes on such a calm river.”

“Indeed,” replied the fisherman, “and then there’s the Grotto of the Dragon’s Beak, which seems altogether strange. Dragons surely don’t have beaks, or didn’t, at any rate.”

Avery made a chirrupy noise from Thomas’s shoulder that was a mixture of anger and amusement. “Hardly true, Finlay the fisherman! I myself have personal knowledge of a number of beaked dragons. In fact, I know well the story to which that grotto’s name refers: for the dragon’s beak is the subject of a famous lay of the Blackhill Clan, a ballad to our forebears and a tale of the greatest ravens in our history, present company excluded.”

“Would you tell us the story?” Thomas asked. To Finlay, he added, “Avery’s a lovely storyteller, as you’ll see.”

“Well, I can certainly try,” said the raven. “But it’s properly told in bird-language, that melodious poetry; and to translate it would be to destroy much of its silver and sparkle. Nevertheless, I have told it many times in the human tongue to much applause, and the audiences that beheld my telling praised it as even more poignant than the original. So yes, Thomas, I’ll give you a taste of the old song, though I warn that it’ll be only an echo of the true form.”

True to his word, Avery began to relate the story of the dragon’s beak, a tale that involved fairies and a headless goat and a sentient patch of water-lilies. Thomas and Finlay and Cathán were thoroughly entertained, though for his part Thomas noticed that the story lacked any reference to dragons at all. He conceded that perhaps he just didn’t understand the allusive and circumspect nature of raven-stories.

At the conclusion of Avery’s story, Thomas asked Finlay, “How far do you think we are from the forbidden grotto now?”

“Only a quarter of a mile now, I’d wager.” Finlay glanced over at him. “Not to pry, but you seem more eager about the grotto than I’d have expected, Thomas. It’s a sunny autumn day and the riverside is absolutely lovely; I’m half-hoping this walk never ends. But I sense that you’re in more of a hurry than that.”

Thomas ducked his head a little, staring out at the expanse of slow-moving blue-gold water. “I suppose I am. You’re right that it’s a beautiful day, and under other circumstances I’d like nothing more than to walk along the river with you and swap stories. In a few days I might even return here and we can do just that. But for now, I’ve got other matters on my mind that are . . . more troubling.”

Thomas trusted Finlay. He was still wary of confiding in strangers; his experience with Saf had taught him not to rely solely on outward appearances or demeanors. But Thomas felt that Finlay was truly kind and could be trusted with a few of the details of his quest. It would be nice to have another friend and ally, too, Thomas thought. “My sister’s been . . . well, caught up in some trouble, I suppose, and I’m trying to help her out. I need to collect a shell from the forbidden grotto to do that. I’ve been asking around, but no one knew about the forbidden grotto until you. I don’t have much time left to help my sister, either, so I’m a bit pressed for time—otherwise I’d be napping and enjoying more of that eel-skin soup. You’ve been very kind to us, by the way. Thank you.”

Finlay patted Thomas on the shoulder. “My pleasure, Thomas. Happy to help. And I’m sorry about your sister. I’ll do what I can to help you find the shell, if you’d like, and anything else you need along the way. I know what it’s like to have a sister in trouble.”

“You do?”

“Aye, my own sister Fiona.” Finlay tipped his hat back and wiped his brow. “It’ll take us a bit to get ready to ford the river when we get there, so I’ll tell you the story, if you’d like. Fiona is two years younger than I am, though she’s twice as clever. She and I had some good adventures when we were younger—play-fighting in the clover field, hunting for mushrooms, that sort of thing. We carried on well. But Fiona has always been a bit of a troublemaker, and one day, when we were about your age, she got herself into a pixie-snare.”

Finlay smiled at the memory. “Oh, how she howled! It was her own fault too, and no denying: all caught up in their tricks, unable to move, squirming and wriggling while they giggled about turning her into bread. I was nearby; we’d been playing that day, and she’d stolen my lunch and pushed me into the mud, so I wasn’t feeling particularly keen to help her. I thought I might just leave her to her troubles with the pixies. I was sure they weren’t serious about eating her.”

“That’s a dangerous gamble,” Cathán said. “Pixies joke about everything but food.”

“I’ve certainly learned as much since then! I wasn’t as experienced in those days; I suspect that you all have seen much more than I. In any case, whether it was suspicion of the pixies or worry about my sister or something else besides, my kindness won out. I was still angry with her, but I decided to help Fiona anyway. We got free from the pixies and she thanked me and gave me her apple as compensation.”

At Finlay’s direction, they began the descent to the riverside, following a little trail cut into the side of the slope. The edge of the water was sandy; the water left little muddy pools and whorls where it lapped rhythmically against the shore.

“There wasn’t an immediate change in Fiona’s behavior,” Finlay said, slowing. “But we carried on well enough as youth after that. Later on, when we reached apprenticeship age, she went off traveling and started studying white magic in some faraway place. She comes back to visit every so often, and we spend hours with our parents, talking and laughing about past adventures and her upcoming work. About a year ago, Fiona brought me back a charm—a kind gift that I carry with me always.”

The fisherman pulled the charm from beneath his shirt and showed it to them. It was a flat circle of wood with symbols carved into it; Thomas thought they looked like flowers. It hung on a simple leather cord around Finlay’s neck.

“It’s a charm for good luck,” said Finlay, tucking it back against his chest. “Blessed by white magic. After that visit, I wrote her a letter to thank her again, and ever since we’ve had a happy correspondence in between visits. She’s grown into a wonderful woman, and her charm has certainly brought me luck in my own endeavors. I don’t think saving her from the pixies was the only reason for all of that—but I know that it helped, because it helped me too. She just needed a little kindness, and I just needed a little sacrifice.”

He smiled at Thomas. “Seems like you’ve already learned all about that, Thomas: sacrificing your time and effort to get your sister out of trouble. You’re a good lad. Now, are we ready to cross the river?”

Here the eastern river was shallow and sluggish, stretching out for a nap in the glow of the Tuesday sun. The watergrass and fronds growing along its banks were tinged gold in the light; red and orange were the mossy patches, lilies, spangles, and frog-leaves drifting along the river in a murmuring parade. The air smelled wet and warm. Thomas could hear the slosh of the water against the shoreline and a deeper crash where it caught in the rocks on the opposite shore, farther downstream.

Finlay pointed at some red-leaved trees across the river. “The forbidden grotto is there, just beyond those trees,” said the fisherman. “We should cross here. Everyone ready?”

Thomas shucked his satchel and jacket. After a moment’s consideration, he removed his shoes and held them in one hand, feeling the muddy sand press between his toes. “Will our things be safe here?”

“Surely so,” said Finlay, removing his own shoes and rolling up the cuffs of his trousers to the knee. “We’ll be back after a quick jaunt; and anyway few come to this part of the eastern river. Now walk after me. The way isn’t treacherous except for a few slick patches and a couple of sharp rocks there. On we go!”

The water was cold and refreshing and came to Thomas’s waist. He shivered a moment, then laughed to catch his breath and waded out. Cathán rode upon his shoulder, whereas Avery had chosen to take the river’s span in one great swoop. The glossy raven now perched on a log stuck into the far shore, preening his feathers and chirping at them with what Thomas was sure were vaguely insulting but affable bird-jests.

Elwood was initially shy of the flowing river, but after some coaxing, the great shaggy dog dipped a paw into the cold water and then leapt as though he were a sailor striving for land in a torrent. The river only came to the dog’s shoulders, but he seemed to enjoy swimming, his paws treading wide swathes of water and his tail beating out a splashing drumbeat as he followed behind Thomas. Twice during the journey, Elwood stopped on a particularly high stretch of rock, raised himself up, and shook out the water from his fur—paying no mind to the fact that most of his body was still submerged. Then he jumped in again and swam on.

Thomas caught sight of a few of the sleek eels that frequented the area. They were beautiful creatures, as smooth and quick as their soup had been delicious. The boy felt one brush against his bare leg and he shivered again, though the feeling was not altogether unpleasant.

Elwood, for his part, tried to catch the eels, diving in with an abundance of enthusiasm and a dearth of coordination, dexterity, skill, or fishing-knowledge. His jaws snapped at water and river-weeds; his head returned to the surface, water dripping into his eyes and curling his shaggy fur, the expression on his face of confusion and disappointment. Then, on the third try, the dog emerged with a flopping fish proudly seized between his jaws; and this prize he carried to the far shoreline and promptly devoured, bones and all.

The rest of the companions reached the far shore. They followed Finlay from the sand to the rocky line below the cliffs that rose chalky-white some thirty feet above. The stone was warm on Thomas’s bare feet. They crossed the barren patch to the copse of trees, which Thomas now identified as some kind of short red maple. The trees had long vine-roots extending over the rocks and into the water, drinking their life from the eastern river and displayed its bounty in the brilliance of their leaves.

Thomas had an odd sense of the trees, as though they were more alive than most. Perhaps it was the color, he decided, or their adaptation to life on the cliff-wall above the river.

Finlay led them through the trees to a clearing on the other side. Here was the grotto, fed from a bend in the river but blocked from view by the copse of maples and the tangle of their vines onto the shoreline. The cliffs here were stained a dusty red, the same color as the leaves, thickly coated with a substance that looked like pollen.

But Thomas was more interested in the forbidden grotto itself. A muddy tributary of the eastern river wound through the crags and dropped into a low pool, draining thence into the dark interior of the grotto that was cut into the cliff-wall by weather and time. As Thomas drew near, he saw rough-hewn steps circling down around the pool and into the grotto. The sight was a relief and a fresh source of wonder about the forbidden grotto, as well as perhaps another prickle of fear that he tamped down.

“Steps down!” cried Cathán excitedly. He hopped off Thomas’s shoulder to go inspect. “Not necessary for mousefolk or birdkind, of course, but for humans and canines these will be most convenient.”

“Odd, that there should be steps here,” remarked Finlay. “But convenient indeed.”

The fisherman was busy collecting fallen maple-leaves from the ground. When he’d gathered an armful, he passed them to Thomas and then approached one of the living trees. Finlay selected a sturdy-looking branch, wrapped his hands around it, and tugged downward. The tree seemed almost to resist; Thomas noticed the trunk swaying away from Finlay, just a little, so little that it might have been the boy’s imagination entirely. Finlay struggled with the branch a moment longer, twisting his grip and shifting his stance to pull down with all his weight—and then the branch snapped clean and the fisherman raised it up triumphantly.

“We ought to take extra care here,” Avery said, hopping down to the first step leading into the grotto. “If the trees outside are this resilient, I wonder what treasure they might be guarding down below.”

Finlay reclaimed the leaves from Thomas and lashed them to the branch with twine, then used flint to strike a spark into the leaves. To Thomas’s surprise, rather than flaming and burning out quickly, the leaves burned with a steady bright light that precisely reflected the ruddy color of the trees and the cliff-walls.

Finlay smiled at Thomas’s look. “I discovered this a short time ago. The red powdery stuff that collects on the cliffs—the pollen, or whatever it is? It’s effective at burning for a long time without being extinguished. I found some caked into a few of the eels I caught; I assume they ate some of the leaves or that some of the powder got into the river. Let me tell you, friends: that was surely a surprise when I cooked up the eels! But it’ll serve us well as a torch for now.”

They proceeded in single file down the steps that wound around the lip of the pool before dropping into the darkness of the grotto. Elwood went first of his own accord, sniffing his way forward, followed by Finlay with the maple-leaf torch casting dancing shadows as they passed from daylight into cave-dark. Thomas followed right behind Finlay, with Avery and Cathán in their usual places.

The temperature dropped along with them, though it was a pleasant reprieve from the warmth of the afternoon. By the time they reached the end of the steps, Thomas’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness of the grotto. They were standing on a broad platform of stone next to a rippling pool of water that reflected both the flames of Finlay’s torch and the shaft of sunlight coming from the cave’s entrance. Thomas saw a ring of stone encircling the small pool, a walkway that surrounded the water completely and was wide enough to walk along.

Thomas did just that. With Cathán still on his shoulder and the rest of his companions remaining on the larger platform, Thomas stepped onto the walkway and began to circle the pool. He kept one hand on the jagged stone wall to his left to keep his balance. The walkway was slick with water but secure, and in less than a minute Thomas had returned to his friends after a full revolution around the grotto.

“It seems to be normal so far,” Thomas reported. “I can’t see very far down into the pool, though, so I don’t know how deep it is. And it looks like there might be a few smaller caves or tunnels over there.” He pointed to the back wall of the grotto, where the broad platform narrowed into a tight space. Cathán immediately leapt forward to investigate.

Finlay took in a deep breath through his nose. “There’s something strange in the air here,” he said, smelling again. “It’s clear that other people and animals have been here before—even that they come here regularly, I should think. I smell wet fur and fish.”

“And cinders,” added Thomas, rubbing at a dark smudge on the platform. “Maybe we’re not the only ones to bring fire into the forbidden grotto. The carved-out steps make me think that someone comes here often. But why?”

“Forbidden things have a mighty allure,” said Avery. “I myself have darted after many a gilt object or trinket in the heat of fancy. Of course, such attractions are for the weak-minded and foolish, like humans: I have never pursued such vain thrills, preferring loftier objectives. But I am given to understand that the forbidden nature of mystical places might, in fact, make them more appealing to a certain sort of individual. That’s why I’ve brought you all to explore this grotto, after all.”

Elwood barked. This was nothing new, but then he barked again, and a third time. He was sniffing at the edge of the pool.

“Hairy cat?” Cathán returned from the dark corners of the grotto and approached the pool. “Nothing over there but dried leaves and ants, by the way. But Elwood says he smells something unusual here. Some strange creature. He’s calling it a hairy cat, but I don’t understand what he means by that.”

“All cats are hairy,” offered Finlay, holding the torch over the water. “Unless this one’s especially so?”

Elwood barked.

Cathán laughed. “That’s a bold statement from you, my friend! Still, if you think it’s hairy—just from the smell—then what must it be but a great clump of fur and nothing more?”

At that moment, a huge splash erupted from the pool, showering all of them with heavy droplets. The companions jumped back as one. Something hairy indeed emerged from the crater of the splash and climbed onto the platform before them. It was an animal, perhaps half the size of Elwood; and it was long, sleek, and exceptionally furry.

Thomas jumped back a step further. Cathán climbed up to the top of Elwood’s head and readied a tiny arrow, training it on the strange creature. Avery folded his wings over his body and hopped back to Thomas’s side. Elwood stood his ground, panting, licking the water from his own fur.

Finlay was the first to approach the creature. The fisherman stepped up next to Elwood, knelt, and reached out a hand holding a strip of dried eel. He gestured invitingly at the creature.

The creature spoke. “I’d hardly eat that on just your word,” it said, in a haughty feminine voice. “But perhaps I’d take some oats and honey if you have them. I’m accustomed to the fine fare of the wild fields of the northland; nothing else will do. And I’m not a hairy cat, you great brute.” The creature cast a baleful glare at Elwood. The dog, for his part, seemed only mildly abashed.

“Then what are you?” Thomas fished around in his pockets. After a moment’s consternation, he produced a small vial of grainy sugar, something he’d purchased from Alice’s Apothecary. He held it out to the creature.

Finlay supplemented this with a pinch of covered barley. “I keep some for long treks down the river hunting for supplies,” he explained. “They’re good to chew.”

“They’re good to eat,” said the creature, accepting barley and sugar alike. She sat back on her haunches and dipped her round face into her cupped hands, eating the food much the way Thomas had seen rabbits eat heads of cabbage in his mother’s garden. “And I’m not sure what I am.”

“Well,” said Thomas after a long pause. “That’s . . . unexpected. Maybe you’re a—large rabbit of some kind?”

The creature shook her head and kept nibbling. “Not a rabbit.”

“A weasel,” suggested Avery.”

“No.”

Cathán lowered his bow and arrow, though he kept the dart nocked. “A stoat? Or maybe a marten? Graceful creatures, those.”

“Thank you, but no. Definitely not.”

Elwood barked.

Avery chirped out a laugh. “I suppose beaver-cat is as good a guess as any. Is that what you are, miss?”

The creature paused again. “Do you and I have a problem, shaggy dog?”

Elwood made a whining noise and then craned his head over and licked the side of the creature’s face. She looked affronted—and shocked, more than anything. Thomas could hardly contain his laughter at the sight.

Strangely, that seemed to endear Elwood to the creature, who smoothed down her fur and permitted the dog a small smile, then patted him on the nose. “Not a beaver-cat, but you’re a good boy for guessing it.”

Elwood wagged his tail enthusiastically.

“You might be a fennyd,” Finlay said. The fisherman was sitting now, cross-legged next to Elwood, having propped up the torch in some loose stones nearby.

Thomas followed his example and asked, “What’s a fennyd?”

“A furry water-sprite,” said Finlay. “I’ve heard tale of them in other grottos. Friendly things and fierce.”

“Not a fennyd.” The creature finished off her snack and placed her front paws back on the platform. She sat now like a noble cat, her fur slick with water, her eyes brown and wide and intelligent, her ears pointed and twitching, foxlike. “I am unique among creatures, I think. That is why I don’t know what I am. My name is Ableil. I used to live on the tall gray rock over the lake, where I would play the harp and sing and dance. I had enchantments of my own, then: great powers from the earth and sky. I ruled over my people with graceful magic and music.”

Ableil sniffed and tapped on the ground with one of her paws. “But then I fell in love with Gilroy, the red-haired servant of the king. I should have known better. He ruined my life and turned me into this hairy creature and left me imprisoned in this grotto.”

“That’s terrible,” said Cathán.

“Indeed, little mouse. And that’s why this place is called the Grotto of Gilroy’s Folly. It’s forbidden to humans—didn’t you hear?—but since you’ve brought food and fair company, I suppose I can tell you my story, if you’d like to hear it.”

They all nodded. “Good,” said she. “I’ll need some more treats, but for now, settle yourselves in and listen.”

They did as she asked, and Thomas and Finlay set out the rest of the food they had with them. Ableil arranged it into a neat little pile, nodded at it, and began her tale.

“I was a great queen in those days. I ruled my people fairly; I treated my enemies without mercy. But I was cunning and clever in my justice toward them, preferring to trick and ensnare instead of using my magic for violence. I entranced many with my powerful harp and my beautiful playing. Thus my enemies came to love me and serve me, seemingly of their own will; and I was glad to have increase in my dutiful servants.

“Gilroy was the first to be untouched by my harp-strings. He came to my court one day, climbing the gray rock over the lake without difficulty and then scaling the great staroak tree in which I had planted my throne-room. Gilroy entered the innermost room of my throne without permission, interrupting my dance and communion with the tree’s spirit. He was brash and wild and his head was aflame with red hair that had been burnished white-gold by the sunshine.

“He came as the servant of a king. He had a message to deliver, and there in the throne-room, without regard for my interrupted dance or the loftiness of my position, Gilroy delivered his message and turned to leave. He didn’t even have the decency of a backward glance or a bit of groveling! So I turned to my harp and played a quick magic to bend his will to mine.”

Ableil made a noise then, a silvery laugh that sounded to Thomas like a mixture of joy and frustration. “He was impervious! He looked back then, listening to the music, and then he told me it was lovely and left the room. I was beyond any words with emotions I’d never felt before. I was tempted to use my magic less directly for revenge—to summon an army of fairies and demons, perhaps, or to command the trees and flowers of the field to hold this impudent fast until he became old and withered and his fire-hair turned to ashes.

“But my curiosity and interest won out, and I went after him myself to speak with him.” Ableil took a small pinch of sugar and nibbled it. “He was charming and fearless. I dedicated myself to winning his affection, and eventually I succeeded. We were happy for a time. Truly happy together, wild and free, magic and mortal, living under sunlight and starshine.

“Then Gilroy was offered a new position with his king. He was told he would become a knight, replete with polished armor and a strong swift sword, if he would deliver poison to the Tinker of Shady Glen. I had little opinion on the matter; I did not know the Tinker, nor did I care if my love were knight or noble or king or commoner. But then we learned that the Tinker had taken a wife named Anna—and she!—oh yes, I knew her. The serpent-witch Anna. I knew of her dark deeds and witchcraft. I warned Gilroy that poisoning Anna’s husband would surely result in disaster for him and his king.

“Of course, Gilroy was brave and fearless. He heeded not my warnings and left to deliver the poisoned meal to the Tinker.” Ableil blinked quickly and fell silent a moment. Elwood, sitting close, whined a little and shuffled forward on his belly until his nose touched Ableil’s rabbitlike foot. She smiled and reached out her paw to pat the dog’s nose and stroke his shaggy face.

“Gilroy left undaunted for the Tinker’s home in Shady Glen; and I followed after, my heart already breaking. The serpent-witch Anna was there when we arrived. We fought with Anna and the Tinker, he with his sword and shield, I with my magic harp.

“In that battle, all of us were wounded and forever changed. I had given Gilroy a magic potion to make him tall as a giant and strong as thirty men. Anna employed sorcery of her own and cursed my love, condemning him to live forever—‘remaining as a cave as hollow as his own heart,’ she said, vile lies to accompany her wicked magic.”

A single tear dripped from Ableil’s brown eyes and slid to the end of her nose. The grotto rumbled then, sending dust shivering into the pool and the water rippling back against the edges of stone. The teardrop fell to the ground.

“I was cursed as well,” Ableil added, sniffing. “I became a thing of no voice and no magic, a creature prized for its fur, a being without name or kind—something that all would want to possess and none would want to nurture.”

She fell silent for a time, chewing on the rest of the sugar and barley seeds. Her audience remained quiet. The only sound was the dripping of water in the grotto and Elwood’s steady breathing as he looked up through his shaggy shock of hair.

Then Ableil said: “The Tinker and his wife Anna came to their own just fates, but my Gilroy and I have suffered far worse than they. We live on, so close and so distant, barely memories of our former lives. I have the red maples up above for Gilroy’s hair and the quaking now and then, but those are just echoes of his wild nature. He is gone. The only thing I have left of him is his heart, which has become a hardened shell and a home for creeping bugs, not the beautiful fire it once was.”

Thomas glanced immediately at his companions, then back to Ableil. “Where is Gilroy’s heart now?” he asked.

Ableil cleaned her paws off with her rough tongue. “Down at the bottom of the pool, of course,” she replied. “Thank you for the food.”

And then the strange creature leapt into the water and dove into the shadowed depths.