Again, the Sibyl responded in the affirmative.
“Gwendolyn, you wouldn’t believe the coincidence in this. We have to find him, your architect.” Prue was smiling ear to ear. Not only had the tree’s advice proved true, but it seemed, in many ways, to be subtly pointing them in the direction they needed to go.
“What did he look like?” asked Curtis.
The Sibyl made a bemused gesture at her hidden eyes.
Curtis, chastened, blushed. She was blind. “Oh yeah. Sorry.”
Prue took up the line, though. “But were there any distinguishing features—anything we could use to identify him?”
“WELL, THE TWO GOLDEN HOOKS IN THE PLACE OF HIS HANDS. THAT SHOULD BE A GOOD STARTING PLACE. BUT WHAT IS THIS ALL ABOUT? WHY MUST YOU FIND THE ARCHITECT?” The congregation had passed them by; Bartholomew the Seer, hobbling slowly on his knobby cane, stopped to see what the excitement was all about.
“Long story,” said Curtis.
Prue ignored him. “There’s … there’s problems. In the Overworld. Lots of ’em. The tree—the Council Tree—told me—via a little boy, a strange little boy—that we needed to reanimate the true heir. The true heir, apparently, being Alexei. Who is the son of this crazy queen, who was actually known as the Dowager Governess.”
Curtis made a kind of spinning motion at his temple with a finger to illustrate the description. The moles didn’t see it, being blind, and he again blushed at his own forgetfulness.
“WAS?” asked the Sibyl.
“She got swallowed by ivy,” Curtis explained before turning to Prue. “Keep going.”
“The tree said to find the makers. The makers of the boy, the replica. And it sounds like we know who at least one of them was.”
The interrogation continued for some time; both Gwendolyn and Bartholomew offered as much assistance as they could. The architect, they said, had been a quiet individual. He had kept to himself, choosing to sleep in one of the more isolated redoubts of the tunnel system. He had worked tirelessly, though, to rebuild the city. His eyes were very powerful, even if he had lost the use of his hands. And then one morning he was gone, explained the moles, leaving without so much as a forwarding address. He’d simply followed the green electrical cable he’d run to give light to his workspace; it was the direction he’d gone every day in search of more building material. He’d left them a perfectly functioning modern city; for that, they were eternally grateful.
“HIS NAME WAS ESBEN CLAMPETT,” said Gwendolyn. “HE WAS A VERY KIND SOUL.”
Prue and Curtis agreed to stay for the Sibyl’s coronation as the new queen of the City of Moles, to reside in the Fortress of Prurtimus; it was to happen that evening. The consent had been unanimous. She was the sister of the deceased victor, Sir Timothy; there were no other claimants to the throne. What’s more, she was immensely popular, having spent her time while imprisoned feeding Dennis the Usurper far-fetched prophecies that stayed the executioner’s ax for many an unjustly convicted mole. Once she’d been released, she was the toast of the city. When the idea of naming her queen was floated, there were no objections from the Mole Council, nor from any of the citizens.
It was a beautiful ceremony; but the three Overdwellers were itching to head out, though they differed in direction. For Prue, it was simple: They had a clear route to the surface—they needed only follow the fat green electrical cable—and an unimpeachable lead on one of Alexei’s two makers. The tree had spoken true and had not misled them. One of the makers was out there, and they knew how to find him.
“You see?” said Prue, her understanding of the world having suffered another strange imbalance. They were preparing to leave, and she couldn’t stop talking about the prescience of the Yearling’s words. “It’s as if the tree was leading us, all along. As if it knew our fates. ‘You have to go under to get above.’ It’s all falling into place in the weirdest way.”
Septimus was chewing on another of the granola bars; the stash was considerable. The moles had brought them to it. There had been other food items in the remote grotto that housed the Overdweller rations: cans of pork and beans, tomato soup, Hormel chili. They’d also found a yellowed pamphlet, much abused by the mildewing elements of the underground tunnels, which boasted the title: So You’ve Survived the Nuclear Holocaust. What Next? Whoever had made this place his fallout shelter had gone to great lengths to get away from the above-ground.
“Mm-hmm,” said Septimus, his mouth full of an Oats ’n’ Honey Trail Bar.
“What about the bandits?” Curtis asked Prue as she began packing her knapsack full of traveling supplies.
Prue bit her lip and responded as if she hadn’t heard the boy’s question. “Well, I still think you’re right—I still think we’ll be safer aboveground in South Wood. Once we’ve found the maker, we’ll head to South Wood. I have a feeling there are a lot of folks there who would be happy to help us. Who knows, maybe someone in the Mansion will even know where the second maker is. Maybe there are records that will tell us where he was exiled.”
Curtis frowned.
“Or where the bandits are,” added Prue.
“Wildwood,” said Curtis, after a moment of contemplation. “That’s where we belong. Or where I belong.”
“Back at the camp?”
Curtis nodded.
“And then what?” challenged Prue.
“And then … I don’t know. Put together a search party. Find the survivors.”
“You won’t be safe there, Curtis. The Kitsunes could still be lurking. Darla could still be alive.”