53
Rachel
Someone was here! Someone was touching me. My instinct was to fight against him, push him to the ground, escape. But something stopped me.
If he captured me, perhaps he would take me into the building. And that was exactly where I wanted to go.
I said, “I was just looking for Wyatt.”
“I know what you’re looking for. And I know who you are.” His voice was thin, like an old man’s. He kept hold of me, pushing me ahead of him to the very staircase I had been investigating. “Come with me. I’ll take you to Wyatt, and your grandmother.”
In the dim light, I saw his face. I knew he was Carl, the man Mama had spoken of.
I became the usual Rachel, the old Rachel. Sweet, gentle, compliant.
“Oh, thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome, dearie.” He loosened his grip upon my arm a bit, but he didn’t let me go. With his shoulder, he pushed me down the steps.
The walk downstairs was long and dark. I tried to think of a way to talk, to communicate with Wyatt, without this man knowing. “You’re taking me downstairs?” I said. “What’s down here? Where is Wyatt?”
No answer. I was talking about him, not to him. There was obviously a difference or else I would have heard every conversation he ever had. I called, “Wyatt, where are you? I am here, on the stairway!”
“Quiet, girl!” the man said. “I told you I’ll take you to him, soon enough.”
This man was not helping me. I knew that. I tried as hard as I could to hold my hair around me. I couldn’t imagine how long it must be now. I feared to tumble over it and down the stairs. I knew if I tried to run, he could catch me by it.
In the darkness, I heard Wyatt’s voice. “I’m in a room,” he said, “a closet at the bottom of the stairs.”
The staircase was dark and seemed to be endless. Still, I tried to reach out my hand, to touch the wall, to find a door.
“Rachel, be careful,” Wyatt’s voice said.
I kept walking, and he said no more. As I plunged still lower, I heard a strange noise, a whispering or whooshing, like that long-ago train, and I saw a glowing light. But there was no door. At least, I could not feel a door. I kept walking but contemplated the possibility of flight, the possibility of making a break for it, even falling down the stairs. He could not see me in the dark. I could get ahead of him.
But where would I go?
One step, then another, down, down. My movements were automatic, but my mind was racing. What was down there? What would they do to me? To Wyatt? As I approached, the sound seemed less like a train, more like wind or rushing water. The glow became brighter, and I knew that, soon, my captor would be able to see me. I felt his hand tighten on my shoulder whenever I tried to move away.
I made a decision. With one swift movement, I elbowed him in the stomach then used my leg to knock him to the ground. Yes, I was stronger. I knocked him aside with less effort than it had taken to fell the little tree outside. It was nothing to do this. I felt, then heard, him fall to the ground. Then, I grabbed my hair and ran down the stairs, fast as possible. I knew he wouldn’t give up that easily. I had to get ahead of him.
It was hard to see, but as I got lower, the light got brighter, the sound of water louder. Still, I could hear him behind me, struggling. I had nowhere to hide, nowhere to go but down. I trailed my hand along the wall, looking for a door, a window, anything, any way to find Wyatt. Where was Wyatt? I tried not to think about the other one I had lost. Mama. What would I do without Mama? I hoped they wouldn’t hurt her.
I heard footsteps behind me, beating, beating, but below, I heard sounds too now. Some sort of drumming. Was it footsteps as well?
Finally, I reached the bottom and stopped.
It was the strangest place I had ever seen. The light all around me was bright red, and even though I was inside, underground, there were plants, so many plants, hanging, growing from the ceiling. Each plant had so many bright blue flowers, and I knew it was the rhapsody. Mama had said that the Red Fox Inn was where it had started.
Hundreds of people, also in blue, worked, tending the plants. The drumming was one man who beat a drum, perhaps to keep them going. It seemed to be working for they all marched in rhythm. Who were they? What were they doing? Would they attack me if I came closer? I heard footsteps above me, and I knew I would have to decide, and soon.
Then, suddenly, the drumming stopped. A voice yelled, “It’s her! It’s the girl!”
As one, they all looked up.
Then, they started toward me.