The Poisons of Caux: The Hollow Bettle (Book I) (11 page)

here was for a minute a confused whirlwind of brilliant white—the tent, the light, the fur of the snarling animal that seemed to be everywhere at once. Ivy had little time to register what was happening as she was swept away from the tent’s opening and down, seemingly underground.

The thing about it, Rowan later thought, was that he never asked himself how he knew Ivy was being charged—and potentially mauled—by a large wild boar. He hadn’t seen the animal go by, except in a flash. He only knew that in one second, he was attempting to break into a strange tent, and the next, he was staring at the distant treetops up above from the not uncomfortable vantage point of his back. He would have, in fact, stayed on in that restful position if he didn’t know the indisputable fact that pigs can be dangerous, if not downright deadly.

In all of three seconds, he was following the beast and his new friend through the tent’s entrance, where he found only one thing inside. A small excavated hole was burrowed into the loam, and having nowhere else to go, Rowan followed them down into the earth below.

There he found Ivy, rolled in a ball as the animal snorted and snuffled excitedly.

“He wants the bottle!” Rowan called to her, hoping that she might give it up and save herself. He was right—the pig was distinctly drawn to Ivy’s elixir, which she clutched desperately. The creature exhibited an amazing tenacity, a single-mindedness and fierce intent that worried Ivy immensely—even more than catching her breath.

“Well, he can’t have it!”

“Actually,
she
wants your bottle,” a voice corrected. It was clear and captivating, with a slight unrecognizable accent, and the words seemed to float in the air long after they were spoken.

As Ivy lay pinned against the underground floor, they were joined in the shallow room by a woman of such height and presence that Rowan, too, felt a short supply of air.

She was so tall, much taller than Rowan, that she stooped beneath the modest ceiling, but even in this indelicate stance she radiated a thrilling confidence, a self-possession that Ivy instantly admired. She had one hand on her hip, below which flowed in crisp angles her long and beautifully tailored stark
white skirts. The gown proceeded to the floor and appeared to be made of the same fabric as the tent. From her neck draped a similarly exotic scarf, and although both the dress and scarf brushed the earth, neither displayed any sign of dust.

She was immaculate.

Her other hand held a lantern with a reservoir of clear oil, and the added light gave them a better look at the animal.

It was a wild-looking boar, of a much more impressive height than Ivy, hackles that arched with ferocious quills meeting her at eye level. The boar was white as snow from tusk to tail, except for its pale blue eyes, and equally untouched by Cauvian dirt. And Ivy noticed its smell: crisp and cold, the smell of the mountaintops.

“Well, Poppy,” said the woman in a voice that filled the room with a light melody. “What have you here?”

Ivy’s calls for help had ceased, but her discomfort had not. Being the object of a boar’s complete attention was unnerving, and she steeled herself for a showdown. The animal’s viscous snout quivered with anticipation.

The woman advanced toward Ivy, reached decisively into the fray, and plucked the small bottle from Ivy’s embrace.

“Hey—that’s mine! You leave it alone!”

Rowan couldn’t understand why Ivy wouldn’t want to give it to her. Certainly, if this strange vision asked him for anything—his robes, his
Field Guide
—he would be honored to give it up. He had to stop himself from offering her the picnic from Axle there in his hands.

Ivy’s prized possession rose from the lady’s open palm.

And then, oddly, she laughed. (And what a laugh it was—one full of melody and birdsong.)

“Poppy! I should have known. You’ve found yourself a bettle!”

It was then that Rowan, being
somewhat of an expert in pigs, realized what he was looking at.

“A bettle boar!” he cried.

Poppy was indeed a bettle boar, a boar used exclusively for the mining of bettles in the Craggy Burls. They possess an uncanny ability to smell the jewels beneath the earth of the mines. Rowan had never seen a bettle boar before—he thought they were only found on the tops of snowy mountains—and this was a real treat for the son of a pig farmer.

The woman reached into a side pocket of her white skirts and pulled out what was to be only the second bettle Ivy had ever seen. A brilliant orange. She waved it around, and when she’d caught the attention of the boar, she tossed the priceless jewel back the way that she’d come. The boar was gone in a flash, bounding after her toy.

“That should occupy her for the time being. Now to the business of introductions.”

Poppy, in the distance, could be plainly heard joyfully snorting. Occasionally, the bettle clinked against the pig’s teeth.

“My name is Rowan Truax. Guild-accredited taster, at your service.”

Ivy rolled her eyes. She was still smarting from her introduction to Poppy and considered not speaking at all.

“Where are we?” she asked instead. The question was a
reasonable one, since they seemed to be in a small underground chamber.

“This is Poison Ivy,” Rowan volunteered. He was happy to say anything at the moment, and the words were tumbling out of his mouth. “Ivy Manx. That’s her uncle’s bettle there, inside that bottle you have. It’s hollow, they say. Come to think of it, that’s probably why he named it the Hollow Bettle….”

“Rowan!” Ivy hollered, ending his blather.

“Poison Ivy?” Their host looked amused. “My name is Clothilde.” Her smile—a slight crescent with two upward ends—made its way slowly across her face.

Ivy glared in return. “May I please have my bottle back?
Clothilde?”

“I don’t see why not,” the woman said merrily. “It’s of no use to me.”

The children found this highly irregular, but as Clothilde seemed about to return the bottle, Ivy wisely said nothing.

“A
hollow
bettle, you say?” Clothilde seemed to reconsider. “Surely not.”

Ivy scowled at the taster.

In the clear light of the oil lamp, the bettle blazed—catching the light in its central flaw and for a moment shining as bright as any mirror. The woman held the lantern up to her face—her skin glowed remarkably white in the clear light—and with her other hand she carefully held up the bottle to examine the captive bettle. Her face took on a new expression, a
slight softening around her eyes, and she turned the bottle to better see the stone. Suddenly a light, as clear and bright as any, drew a jagged line from her forehead to her chin. It shone eerily from the bottle in a shadow play upon her white face—at first quite indistinct, but soon falling crisply into focus.

Upon Clothilde’s face, and seemingly shining from the bettle, was an ancient-looking and quite curious insignia, one not entirely unknown to either of the children. A flower with five petals.

A cinquefoil.

“Yes,” Clothilde exhaled. “I remember this bettle.” She looked over to Ivy.

“No, you don’t!” Ivy reached for her bottle. The strange vision—and the cinquefoil—vanished, leaving Ivy shaken. “I mean, that’s impossible. It’s my uncle’s bettle.” She examined it gently swaying in the amber liquid for any damage.

“Amazing,” Rowan managed, quite bewitched.

Clothilde blinked once, and Ivy had the impression she was about to say something. She noticed the woman’s eyes now: a translucent, bleached-out center, like water, while the outer part of the iris faded into a russet red-brown rim.

“As you like.” Clothilde turned away. In the silence that followed, Poppy could be heard gnawing on her own bettle.

“Well, Ivy Manx and Rowan Truax, graduate of the Guild. Allow me, since you’re here, to show you around.”

hen you grow up on a pig farm, and the Truax family farm was one of the biggest in the region, you develop what Rowan’s father came to call pig sense. As everyone knows, pigs are highly intelligent animals. What Rowan’s dad meant by pig sense was simple: if you get to thinking like a pig, the pigs get to thinking like you. It makes for a happy pig and a happy farmer. And one of the things anyone with pig sense knows is that pigs like to have fun. Rowan’s father was pleased to possess a son with an awful lot of pig sense.

Poppy was at a large set of doors on the far wall, snorting with excitement. The boar seemed especially thrilled with Rowan—and bounded immediately to take up position by his side, carrying the orange bettle in her mouth.

“Oh, don’t worry about her,” Clothilde said, seeing Ivy hesitate. “She’s fine now that she has her favorite toy. It was
necessary to take it away so she could guard the entrance. All the same, she forgot her duties.” A distinct note in her voice made it quite clear to the children that they should avoid disappointing her.

Poppy was—to Ivy’s relief—quite content to walk beside Rowan. Clothilde marched ahead and threw open the great set of arched doors made from what seemed to be densely woven wooden branches darned with many years of ancient patina. The wood seemed to pulse as if each strand were alive, giving the impression that it was only by the greatest of efforts that it maintained its doorlike shape. It opened easily, but not on hinges. It was as if the wood moved itself on its own accord at her touch.

But that was just the beginning. For what Ivy and Rowan walked into was a room—if one might call something so vast and intricate a mere room—like no other.

“Welcome, children, to Underwood.”

The walls, the pillars, the distant ceiling stretched out wondrously ahead. And they were all constructed of various widths of twisting, squirming wood—roots and sprigs—some the thickness of ten men, some as slender and delicate as a splinter. And all remarkably fashioned into the most impressive cavernous grand hall the two had ever seen.

Underwood existed in a soft, pleasing glow, a type of diffused light that seemed at once both perfectly natural and unearthly in its green tinge. From where this special light
emanated was unclear—it felt weighty, as if it could be captured and held in one’s pocket for a darker moment. The smell, like the forest above it, was pure and woodsy.

“Wow,” they both chorused together.

But even with the vague lighting, there was no end in sight to the Great Room of Underwood. Ivy’s impression that the walls were alive grew as she ran her hands over an ornate column to her side, the knots together forming an intricate gnarled braid, and she felt the ancient strength of its components.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” she whispered.

“What … what …
is
this place?” Rowan asked.

“At one time—in its heyday—Underwood was King Verdigris’s retreat, a place of magic and meditation for him.”

“King Verdigris … came here?” Rowan was incredulous. He remembered his vision in Axle’s study and the shadowy face of the pained king in his final days.

“King Verdigris
built
it,” she corrected, and Ivy caught Rowan’s eye, impressed.

They walked along, the massive corridor seemingly endless.

“He fashioned it from the ancient roots of the trees above—in Southern Wood.”

“Underwood is alive!” Ivy realized now why the walls seemed to be pulsating.

“Yes,” Clothilde said. “For now. But Underwood is dying.
At one time, these roots were green with youth, and new shoots and tendrils would break free at their own whim. At its height of life, it was constantly twisting and reinventing itself into new rooms. You could easily get lost or turn the corner and find an entirely new place to explore. But no more. Perhaps the great trees above have outgrown themselves. Or perhaps they need their creator to nourish them in other ways. And Verdigris, as the forest knows, is gone.”

“Who comes here now?” Rowan asked. The place looked empty except for themselves, and he hoped this was true. He thought how Poppy had been stationed above, and suddenly wondered from what danger Clothilde wanted guarding.

“Underwood became the sanctuary of renegades after Verdigris left it. A place of outlaws.”

This was not the news Rowan was hoping for. It would be nice to relax for a little bit without thinking about the Estate of Turner Taxus or that Outrider. He began to look more closely into the darker corners of the cavern.

“What are
you
doing here?” Ivy asked suspiciously.

“Me? I came here hoping to find someone.”

“Who?”

“An apotheopath.”

“An apotheopath! Why would you think you’d find one here?”

“This became their stronghold after they were forced underground.”

“Underground! That’s clever.” Rowan looked around. “Hey—Ivy’s uncle is an apotheopath! Maybe he’s here, too.”

This was just what Ivy was thinking but had hoped to keep to herself. Rowan’s desire to share everything with this strange lady was beginning to annoy her. But Clothilde seemed elsewhere.

“No. There’s no one here.”

For the first time, Ivy noticed a note of melancholia in their host.

“Are you sure? The place seems so big,” Ivy said. Her uncle might be hiding anywhere down here, and the thought did occur to her that she might call out to him.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“What do you need an apotheopath for? You’re not sick, are you?” A crease of worry lined Rowan’s young forehead.

“Hardly,” she scoffed. “Do I look sick to you?”

Rowan admitted she was the picture of health indeed.

They now came upon a little hallway with a vaulted woody ceiling, into which Clothilde turned, ducking. The unearthly lighting continued down the path, the galloping roof reminding Ivy very much of the inside of a barrel. Stopping along the haphazard path, their host turned to them, and framed against the knotty caverns of the low ceiling, she looked even grander. Clothilde spied Rowan’s prized picnic basket in his arms, and her eyes narrowed.

“This way.” She gestured. And then to Ivy, “I don’t think your taster can wait any longer for his lunch.”

Rowan, flushing a beet red, wondered if Clothilde had heard his stomach groan.

“I’ll tell you everything once we’ve properly dined in the king’s chambers.”

King Verdigris’s chambers? Ivy and Rowan were appropriately quiet as they walked the length of the hall, with Poppy taking up the rear, nipping playfully at the taster’s heels.