Gregor the Overlander (Underland Chronicles #1)

Gregor the Overlander (Underland Chronicles #1) Page 10

PART 2 The Quest

Chapter 10

When Gregor's heart started up again, it beat so hard, he thought it might break through his chest. His hand reached out on its own, his fingers grasping for the key chain. "Where'd you get that?"

"I told you other Overlanders have fallen. Some years ago we rescued one very like you in face and feature. I cannot recall the exact date," said Vikus, placing the key chain in Gregor's hand.

"Two years, seven months, and thirteen days ago," thought Gregor. Aloud, he said, "It belongs to my dad."

Waves of happiness washed over him as he ran his fingers over the worn leather braid and the metal snap that allowed you to attach it to your belt loop. Memories flashed through his mind. His dad fanning out the keys to find the one to open the front door. His dad jingling the keys in front of Lizzie in her stroller. His dad on a picnic blanket in Central Park, using a key to pry open a container of potato salad.

"Your father?" Luxa's eyes widened, and a strange expression crossed her face. "Vikus, you do not think he -- "

"I do not know, Luxa. But the signs are strong," said Vikus. "My mind has been on little else since he arrived."

Luxa turned to Gregor, her violet eyes quizzical.

What? What was her problem now?

"Your father, like you, was desperate to return home. With much difficulty we persuaded him to stay some weeks, but the strain proved too great and one night, also like you, he slipped away," said Vikus. "The rats reached him before we did."

Gregor smashed into reality, and the joy drained out of him. Of course, there were no other living Overlanders in Regalia. Vikus had told him that in the stadium. His dad had tried to get home and had met up with the same fate Gregor had. Only the Underlanders hadn't been there to save him. He swallowed the lump in his throat. "He's dead then."

"So we assumed. But then came rumor the rats had kept him living," said Vikus. "Our spies confirm this regularly."

"He's alive?" asked Gregor, feeling hope rush back through him, "But why? Why didn't they kill him?"

"We know not why with certainty, but I have suspicions. Your father was a man of science, was he not?" asked Vikus.

"Yeah, he teaches science," said Gregor. He couldn't make sense of what Vikus was saying. Did the rats want his dad to teach chemistry?

"In our conversations, it was clear he understood the workings of nature," said Vikus. "Of trapped lightning, of fire, of powders that explode."

Gregor was beginning to catch his drift. "Look, if you think my dad's making guns or bombs for the rats, you can forget it. He would never do that."

"It is hard to imagine what any of us would do in the caves of the rats," said Vikus gently. "To keep sanity must be a struggle, to keep honor a Herculean feat. I am not judging your father, only seeking to explain why he survives so long."

"The rats fight well in close range. But if we attack from afar, they have no recourse but to run. Of all things, they wish a way to kill us at a distance," said Luxa. She didn't seem to be accusing his father, either. And she didn't seem mad at him anymore. Gregor wished she'd stop staring at him.

"My wife, Solovet, has a different theory," said Vikus, brightening a little. "She believes the rats want your father to make them a thumb!"

"A thumb?" asked Gregor. Boots held up her thumb to show him. "Yeah, little girl, I know what a thumb is," he said, smiling down at her.

"Rats have no thumbs and therefore cannot do many things that we can. They cannot make tools or weapons. They are masters of destruction, but creation evades them," said Vikus.

"Be glad, Overlander, if they believe your father can be useful. It is all that will give him time," said Luxa sadly.

"Did you meet my dad, too?" he asked. "No," she replied. "I was too young for such meetings."

"Luxa was still concerned with her dolls then," said Vikus. Gregor tried hard to imagine Luxa with a doll and couldn't.

"My parents met him, and spoke him well," said Luxa.

Her parents. She'd still had parents then. Gregor wondered about how the rats had killed them, but knew he'd never ask.

"Luxa speaks true. At present, the rats are our bitter enemies. If you meet a rat outside the walls of Regalia, you have two choices: to fight or be killed. Only the hope of a great advantage would keep a human alive in their paws. Especially an Overlander," said Vikus.

"I don't see why they hate us so much," said Gregor. He thought of Shed's burning eyes, his last words, "Overlander, we hunt you to the last rat." Maybe they knew how people in the Overland tried to trap, poison, and kill off all the rats aboveground. Except the ones they used in lab experiments.

Vikus and Luxa exchanged a look. "We must tell him, Luxa. He must know what he faces," said Vikus.

"Do you really think it is he?" she said.

"Who? He, who?" said Gregor. He had a bad feeling about where this conversation was going.

Vikus rose from the table. "Come," he said, and headed out the door.

Gregor got up, willing his stiff arms to carry Boots. He and Luxa reached the door at the same time and stopped. "After you," he said.

She glanced at him sideways and followed Vikus.

The halls were lined with Underlanders who watched them pass in silence and then broke into whispers. They did not have far to go before Vikus stopped at a polished wooden door. Gregor realized it was the first wooden thing he'd seen in the Underland. What had Vikus said about something being "as rare as trees"? For trees, you needed lots of light, so how would they grow here?

Vikus pulled out a key and opened the door. He took a torch from a holder in the hall and led the way in.

Gregor stepped into a room that seemed to be an empty stone cube. On every surface were carvings. Not just the walls but the floor and ceiling, too. These weren't the frolicking animals he'd seen elsewhere in Regalia, these were words. Tiny words that must've taken forever to chisel out.

"A-B-C," said Boots, which is what she always said when she saw letters. "A-B-C-D," she added for emphasis.

"These are the prophecies of Bartholomew of Sandwich," said Vikus. "Once we sealed the gates, he devoted the rest of his life to recording them."

"I bet he did," thought Gregor. It sounded like just the kind of thing crazy old Sandwich would do. Drag a bunch of people underground and then lock himself in a room and chip out more crazy stuff on the walls.

"So, what do you mean, prophecies?" asked Gregor, although he knew what prophecies were. They were predictions of what would happen in the future. Most religions had them, and his grandma loved a book of them by a guy named Nostra-something. To hear her talk, the future was pretty depressing.

"Sandwich was a visionary," said Vikus. "He foretold many things that have happened to our people."

"And a bunch that haven't?" asked Gregor, trying to sound innocent. He hadn't ruled out prophecies entirely, but he was skeptical about anything Sandwich came up with. Besides, even if someone told you something that would happen in the future, what could you do about it?

"Some we have not yet unraveled," admitted Vikus. "He foretold my parents' end," said Luxa sorrow fully, running her fingers over part of the wall. "There was no mystery in that."

Vikus put his arm around her and looked at the wall. "No," he agreed softly. "That was as clear as water."

Gregor felt awful for about the tenth time that night. From now on, whatever he thought, he would try to talk about the prophecies with respect.

"But there is one that hangs most heavily over our heads. It is called 'The Prophecy of Gray,' for we know not whether it be fair or foul," said Vikus. "We do know that it was to Sandwich the most sacred and maddening of his visions. For he could never see the outcome, although it came to him many times."

Vikus gestured to a small oil lamp that illuminated a panel of the wall. It was the only light in the room besides the torch. Maybe they kept it burning constantly.

"Will you read?" asked Vikus, and Gregor approached the panel. The prophecy was written like a poem, in four parts. Some of the lettering was odd, but he could make it out.

"A-B-C," said Boots, touching the letters. Gregor began to read.

Beware, Underlanders, time hangs by a thread. The hunters are hunted, white water runs red. The gnawers will strike to extinguish the rest. The hope of the hopeless resides in a quest.

An Overland warrior, a son of the sun, -May bring us back light, he may bring us back none. But gather your neighbors and follow his call Or rats will most surely devour us all.

Two over, two under, of royal descent, Two flyers, two crawlers, two spinners assent. One gnawer beside and one lost up ahead. And eight will be left when we count up the dead.

The last who will die must decide where he stands.

The fate of the eight is contained in his hands. So bid him take care, bid him look where he leaps,

AS life may be death and death life again reaps.

Gregor finished the poem and didn't know quite what to say. He blurted out, "What's that mean?"

Vikus shook his head. "No one knows for certain.

It tells of a dark time when the future of our people is undecided. It calls for a journey, not just of humans but of many creatures, which may lead either to salvation or ruin. The journey will be led by an Overlander."

"Yeah, well, I got that part. This warrior guy," said Gregor.

"You asked why the rats hate Overlanders so deeply. It is because they know one will be the warrior of the prophecy," said Vikus.

"Oh, I see," said Gregor. "So, when's he coming?"