Crysalis: Merrill's Tale

Not Funny

“One of us at a time,” Darwin said. “Me first.”

Of course, I know, I should have immediately insisted that no, I should be first, but I didn’t have time to even open my mouth before Darwin stepped forward, off the bridge and onto the plain. He took three steps, four, and I was just thinking that maybe I could stop holding my breath, when:

He sank down to his waist, through what appeared to be solid rock. A kind of shiver passed over the entire rocky plain around him.

“Looks like grippymire,” Newton said calmly. “Dangerous. Told ya so.”

“Crap!” I stepped gingerly off the bridge, testing the surface beneath me for solidity as I moved forward, making sure I moved as slow as rock grows. I felt the ground start to give beneath me and stepped back before the grippymire could seize my boot and drag me down.

“Stay right there,” Newton, right beside me and less than ten feet from his captured twin, yelled through cupped hands. His voice echoed through the cavern around us: “There…there…there...ere…”

Darwin shot him a glance over his shoulder that promised mayhem, bloodshed and pain at a future, as yet undetermined date. “Why don’t you walk on out here and keep me company?” he snarled.

I considered our alternatives. Since Darwin had only sunk to his waist, then we had a good chance of getting him out. If he’d sunk out of sight, of course, he’d be gone forever. A grippymire is a nasty combination of water, muck and rock fragments in what looks like a stable solution filling a hole; easy to stumble into, hard and often impossible to get out of. I had an unpleasant idea as to why this particular place was not on my map; the mapper, or what was left of him or her, was probably somewhere beyond Darwin’s toes.

I took all the bags off my belt. The loops holding them shut could be joined to make a pretty strong rope. I began stripping them out of the bags and tying them together.

“Newton, find me something solid to tie off the end,” I said.

Newton disappeared.

“And be careful!” I yelled. “We don’t know the dimensions of this thing!”

Newton came back in a few minutes. “Closest thing is the upright at the bridge,” he said. “Will the rope reach?”

“It has to,” I said.

It didn’t.

“Crap,” I said again.

“You know, you’re not very creative when it comes to cursing,” Newton pointed out. He sat down and pulled his boots off, set them safely on a flat rock beside him.

“Wait,” I said, “you’re not going out there.”

He looked up at me and shook his head. “Of course I’m not…”

“…but he can come further than you can,” Darwin yelled.

I looked out at the other twin. Darwin had turned to face us and, in the process, had sunk a little more; the gunk was halfway up his chest.

Then he stood up. And waved both hands over his head. And giggled.

“Not funny,” I snapped through gritted teeth.

“Yah, it was,” Newton said, chortling. “You should have seen your face.”

He unwrapped the rope he always had coiled around his waist—that showed how shaken I was, since I knew he and his brother always carried rope—and handed me one end. I made a quick loop around my waist. Then he took a step forward, another, his long, pale toes probing before him. It was a slow process, but finally he was able to lean forward and grab Newton.

Not a clean grab, more of a just barely. It was enough, though, and that was all that mattered.

Darwin backtracked carefully until he was on solid ground by my side. Together, we pulled Newton out, slow and careful, dripping foul smelling muck and cursing cheerfully.