“Yes. Have to be quiet there. He told me that, too. Ma’am, what is your name? Can you tell me your name?”
She shook her head impatiently and pointed to her mouth.
“Hard for you to speak clearly.”
She nodded and wrote in the dirt.
Deerie. She looked at it, shook her head, brushed it away, tried again. DORA.
I asked if Deerie was a nickname. At least I tried, but nickname wouldn’t come out of my mouth. It wasn’t as if I’d forgotten it; I just couldn’t seem to say it. I gave up and asked, “Was Deerie Mr. Bowditch’s friendly name for you, Dora?”
She nodded and stood up, dusting her hands. I got up, too.
“It was very nice to meet you, Dora.” I didn’t know her well enough to call her Deerie, but I understood why Mr. Bowditch had. Her heart was kind.
She nodded, patted my chest, then patted her own. I think to show that we were simpatico. Frens. The crescent of her mouth once more turned up and she bounced on her red shoes, as I suppose Radar might have bounced before her joints got so painful.
“Yes, I’ll bring her if I can. If she’s able. And I’ll take her to the sundial if I can.” Although I had no idea how.
She pointed at me, then gently patted her hands on the air, palms down. I’m not sure, but I think it meant be careful.
“I will. Thank you for your kindness, Dora.”
I turned toward the path, but she caught my shirt and tugged me toward the back door of her little domicile.
“I really can’t—”
She nodded to say she understood I couldn’t stay for a meal but kept tugging. At the back door, she pointed up. Something had been carved into the lintel, higher than Dora could reach. It was his initials: AB. His original initials.
I had an idea then, one that sprang from my inability to say the word nickname. I pointed to the initials and said, “That’s…” Awesome sauce was in my mind, the stupidest slang term I could think of, but a good test case.
I couldn’t get it out of my mouth. It just wouldn’t come.
Dora was looking at me.
“Amazing,” I said. “That’s amazing.”
10
I climbed the hill, ducked through the dangling vines, and started back along the passageway. The sense of faintness, otherworldliness, came and went. The bats were rustling overhead, but I was too preoccupied with what had just happened to pay the sound much mind, and I stupidly turned on the flashlight to see how much farther I had to go. They didn’t all fly, but a couple did, and I saw them in the beam of the light. They were big, all right. Huge. I walked on in darkness, one hand outstretched to fend them off if they flapped my way, but they didn’t. If there were big roaches, I didn’t hear them.
I hadn’t been able to say nickname. I hadn’t been able to say awesome sauce. Would I be able to say wisenheimer or knuckle sandwich or yo, you trippin’， brah? I didn’t think so. I wasn’t positive I knew what that inability meant, but I was pretty sure. I’d thought Dora understood me because she understood English… but what if she had understood me because I had been speaking her language? One where words like nickname and awesome sauce didn’t exist?
When the cobblestones stopped and the dirt began, I felt it was safe to turn the light back on, although I kept it trained at the floor. It was a quarter of a mile between where the cobbles ended and the steps began, Mr. Bowditch had said; even claimed to have measured it out. This time I didn’t lose count of my paces, and I had just reached five hundred and fifty when I saw the steps. Far above, at the top of the well, I could see light from the battery-powered units he’d installed.
I climbed with more confidence than I’d felt when going down, but I still kept my right shoulder firmly planted against the wall. I emerged with no incident and was bending to slide the second board in place over the top of the well when something circular and very hard pressed into the back of my head. I froze.
“That’s right, stay nice and still and we’ll have no problem. I’ll tell you when to move.” It was very easy to imagine that light sing-songy voice saying What will you give me if I spin your straw into gold?
“I don’t want to shoot you, kiddo. And I won’t, if I get what I came for.” And then he added, not as a laugh but like words in a book: “Ha-ha.”
CHAPTER TWELVE Christopher Polley. Spilled Gold. Not So Nice. Preparations.
1
I can’t remember how I felt at that moment. I can remember what I thought, though: Rumpelstiltskin is pointing a gun at the back of my head.