Page 12 of The Goblin and The Dancer
“No, it’s not,” Rosanna insisted, and Grik’s heart fluttered.
“Enough,” Paul interrupted her rudely. He added with a touch more gentleness, “I don’t want to argue with you, Rosanna. The only thing that matters now is getting out of here, and that’s what we’re going to do.” His voice wobbled a bit, revealing the cracks in his confidence as he continued. “And we’ll do that by going back the way we came.”
They began the laborious crawl back towards the drainage pipe. Grik brought up the rear, furious and silent. It was a waste of time and energy. But mixed in with his fury was a kind of breathless delight. His thoughts were all a jumble from Rosanna’s unexpected defense. He tried to tell himself that it was simply her way. He had never heard a word of cruelty escape Rosanna’s lips. She was kind to everyone. Her words couldn’t mean anything special. He wondered if she knew what he had done, or could she possibly love him in spite of it? The memory of what he had done came rushing back, crowding out the sudden elation.
He crawled on after the others, not speaking, and hating himself for it, because he was too afraid to push back against Paul. It was a complete waste of time. He knew it was. But he was a coward as well as a monster.
The sound of tumbling water grew into a dull roar as they neared the drain. The force of the torrent threatened to push them end over end again and back the way they had come. The closer they got, the more the white churning of splattering water filled their surroundings like a heavy fog. Cold, foul water peppered their faces and already slippery hands. They stopped just short of the pipe and stared up at it, searching for a way out that they all knew, deep down, wasn’t there.
They hung there a moment, clutching the wall and sputtering.
“Do you see now?” Grik muttered to Paul, angry on poor Rosanna’s behalf. He didn’t quite dare to say “I told you so”—but he thought it as hard as he could and hoped his thoughts hit Paul like a slap.
“Never mind,” Paul was obviously making a colossal effort to sound confident, and Grik almost admired him. “We’ll go the other way. It was worth a try.”
No, it wasn’t, thought Grik.
“There has to be a way out,” Paul continued. “Sewage workers have to service these tunnels, after all.” His voice dropped a little, as he spoke between clenched teeth. “There has to be a way out.”
The words lingered between them, like a banner raised high by a commanding officer to rally his troops, urging them to keep fighting.
“Of course there must,” Rosanna agreed faintly.
Grik didn’t speak. A way out was a certainty. It was finding it before they died of hypothermia or thirst that would be a problem. There were a hundred ways one could die down here in the dark.
Paul splashed by, shoving Grik a little as he shouldered past. Rosanna floundered after him. Paul was holding her hand and pulling her along. She went with him, unresisting.
“This way,” Paul called.
Grik followed silently.
As he half-swam, half-crawled along through the gloom, he knew he ought to say something. He ought to insist that he knew the tunnels better than any of them. His silence was only compounding his offense, but he couldn’t speak. He was too angry, with Paul and with himself. And he was too ashamed. He realized that what he had hoped for was true.
They didn’t know.
He had never been more relieved in his life, and that only increased his guilt.
Could it be that they were only pretending that they didn’t know? Were they just waiting until a more convenient moment to turn on him and accuse him? No, he was sure they really were oblivious to the fact that he was the one that had landed them in this pit.
He realized that the roof was beginning to slope downwards—rapidly. He was beginning to feel cramped and hot. He imagined it must be twice as uncomfortable for the taller elves, but still they slogged on. The water was no longer sloshing around their waists but their knees, and the realization had made Rosanna and Paul charge forward in a sudden frenzy of hope.
Grik followed more slowly, trying to focus, and understood with a growing unhappiness that their hope was a false one. The fact that the water was receding and they were able to touch bottom had deceived them into thinking they were getting somewhere, but they were only heading towards a wall. This side tunnel must be so piled with refuse and rubble—he could feel it shifting beneath his feet—that the floor had risen artificially. This wasn’t a way out; it was merely a random dead end.
Rosanna and Paul were bent in half now. Rosanna’s breath was coming in tiny sobs, and Paul was panting so raggedly he sounded as if he might be on the verge of losing consciousness.
They were going to injure themselves, and they were breaking their hearts to no purpose. Grik had to speak out.
“Stop!” he shouted.
The wild thrashing ahead of him died down into a shocked silence. He had never yelled so loudly in his life, and the harsh sound of it bounced in that small space with the same jagged force of pelting rocks.
“We can’t go any further!” Grik whispered, the stone around him eating up the echoes of his voice.
There was a long, awful silence—silent save for the dreadful, little sucking sounds that the water made against the ledge and the steady drip, drip, drip of condensation sliding hopelessly down the slick walls.
“Then what?” Paul asked hoarsely. The soldier’s white flag was in his voice.
They were depending on him. The sudden thought was both gratifying and terrifying. Without him, they couldn’t get out. And to do it, he had to start thinking and acting like a true goblin. He closed his eyes and concentrated, straining his senses and his memory for some solution, and he found one in an instant.
