Jeremy looked around. It was a particularly empty stretch of the park. Before them was the Sheep Meadow, which had lain under a blanket of snow that morning. Now it had turned into a sea of mud, held together with bits of grass and the odd pile of rapidly melting slush. There was a thin iron bench overlooking the swampy expanse, and there Jeremy led Holly. She sat with a sigh. After a moment she reached her hand into the lumpy satchel and began to feel for the silken scarf that contained her tiny friends. She patted and rustled and finally peered into the bag. “Oh no. No,” she whispered. “They’re lost again.”
They were not lost. A few minutes after Holly’s departure, Alexia, Euphemia, and Empy had wiggled and shrugged and pushed their way out of the folds of green silk that seemed determined to baffle them. Finally Euphemia worked her wings free and spread them wide. “Scadoddle, Scadaddle, Scadee!” she said breathlessly and, with a quiet pop, she, Lexy, and Empy regained their rightful sizes. They looked around cautiously, but Christopher Carroll was not in sight.
“Well, where is he?” hissed Lexy.
“My goodness, look at that shining doll. Ugh, it walks!” exclaimed Euphemia, hopping backward to avoid a robot.
Empy, quiet Empy, spoke up. “Stop fussing about dolls. Holly’s in trouble,” he said firmly. “First we have to find Mr. Carroll and then somehow make him go to the park with the locket.”
Impressed, Lexy and Euphemia nodded. There was a silence. “Well, where do we find him?” Euphemia asked the penguin.
As if in answer to her question, Christopher Carroll entered his workroom and walked restlessly to the window. He did not notice the three new additions to his menagerie of toys; he did not notice anything. He stood gazing at the purple-yellow sky and the sodden squash of mud that lay in the street below. “Not like Christmas at all,” he murmured.
The animals watched him and exchanged anxious glances. How could they begin to persuade him to believe Holly? What would he do if they began to talk? Tundra had said that humans were terrified of talking animals. Would he think that he had gone mad? Empy, driven by his heart’s devotion, became brave. He looked around the buzzing, glinting room, and something caught his eye. On Christopher’s worktable, four little wooden animals rested where Holly had placed them with shaking hands the night before. Inside the satchel, bouncing along in a bed of green silk, Empy had heard Holly describe the animals to Tundra that morning. “They were identical to you and Lexy and Euphemia and Empy. It was as though you had all been destined to play a part in my life. And his, perhaps,” she had added musingly. Empy squinted; there were the figures. He knew what to do. Gesturing to the other two to follow him, he waddled over to the table and climbed laboriously up Christopher’s chair. Much more gracefully, Lexy and Euphemia ascended the table and, as he turned, startled by the rustle and creak, Christopher Carroll was greeted by the sight of a small red fox and a great white owl perched behind his own wooden figures of the same beasts. With a grunt and a heave, a penguin rolled onto the table and joined his own model. The three—or rather, the six—of them stood there in a line, facing him.
Christopher’s eyes moved slowly from one to the other. Even their expressions were the same as their wooden counterparts, he observed. He picked up the single wooden wolf and looked at it closely. It was identical to the animal that had guarded Holly, he saw now, even down to the wise and watchful eyes. He looked gravely into Lexy’s face, then Euphemia’s, and finally Empy’s. “You belong to her?” he asked.
They nodded.
He sat back in the chair. Somehow, now, it didn’t surprise him that they understood him. It was strange how easily a world constructed of logic could shatter when it faced the secret universe beyond logic. The destruction of Christopher Carroll’s carefully created lonely life took only a moment and, he reflected, it hurt a great deal less than his refusal to believe Holly had. Something closed and cold within him began to unfurl and grow; it had been so many years since he had last encountered it that he did not recognize the feeling as hope. Quietly he asked, “You are from her land? What did she call it—the Land of the Immortals?”
“Yes,” said Empy in a low voice.
“You talk, too?” Christopher said without alarm.
“Yes.”
“Have I become insane?”
“Look at us, Mr. Carroll. Isn’t it easier to believe that we are real than to try to explain our presence by any other means?” Euphemia and Lexy stared. It was the longest speech they had ever heard from Empy s mouth. “Think, Mr. Carroll. Years ago you made these little creatures that look just like us. It shows, don’t you see, that even then you were part of Holly’s life.”
“And the letter I wrote to Santa Claus?”
“Your letter was the beginning of her existence,” said Empy.
Christopher closed his eyes. “And it’s all just as she said?”
“Everything she said is true,” avowed Empy.
“Everything,” Lexy added. “Including the part about Herrikhan. It’s happening right now.”
Christopher’s eyes clicked open. “What will he do?”
“He will try to force her to give her heart to him, to become his possession,” said Lexy.
“Then he’s going to kill her,” said Euphemia. She turned her huge black eyes on Christopher’s face. “The locket’s the only thing that can save her, and you’ve got it, and he’s going to kill her.”
Christopher stared at her. Wordlessly he reached into his waistcoat and brought forth the locket. It shone more brightly than ever. He seemed to see her face, warm and trusting, before him. There she was, her fingers grasping his as he pulled her from the swath of velvet. “Why do you keep coming back?” she had said. Because we belong to each other, he thought. A faint whisper of music reached him. The tune was like none he had ever heard before, wandering, beguiling, bending. He looked around distractedly—who was playing music?—and found himself staring at the music box Holly had left behind. Now he heard the music. It was like flying. It was like a secret. He heard her saying, “Every time you make a choice, you make the future,” and he knew now that there was only one future he wanted. I believe you. I believe you, he thought.
It might be too late, something inside him warned.
Go. Now. Run.
“Where is she?” he said, rising to his feet.
“The park,” said Empy. “She went to the park to meet her father.”
“Come on,” he said, scooping up Empy. “Let’s go find her.”
Then, with a penguin under one arm, a fox at his heels, and an owl flying overhead, Christopher Carroll strode from his lonely, bitter past into his future.
Chapter Twenty-three
IT WAS VERY QUIET. The birds had stopped singing, and the clatter of faraway carts and carriages had faded into eerie silence. There was not a single breath of air stirring the black branches or ruffling the bushes; the sky seemed to press down instead, muzzling the tiny sounds of the park with its thick yellow hands. Alone on her bench, Holly gazed out at the swamp of mud before her and tried to remember all the wonderful things that had happened in the past three days. It was growing more and more difficult, remembering, for her heart fluttered and knocked against her ribs like a trapped bird. If only I could breathe—no, can’t think like that, it will make me desperate. Got to save up, he’s coming, Herrikhan is coming—no, don’t think that, no, think how lucky it is—what?—I forgot—oh yes, now I remember—that Jeremy agreed to go back for Lexy, Euphemia, and Empy. Papa will get them home. And Jeremy won’t be here when the worst of it happens. Mustn’t give in. No matter what. Don’t be silly. Not much longer now. Christopher’s safe. It will just be me. Just me. No one else in danger. If only I could breathe.
She wavered and collapsed into blissful darkness, velvet smooth. No, must wake up, she told herself, and opened her eyes. She could see perfectly clearly now. There was something moving down in the swampy meadow, something underneath the earth. The grass-clotted mud was heaving up, buckling and
lurching, and then, before her horrified eyes, it spewed forth a shrunken, yellowed creature who seemed to ooze a vile white syrup from its pores. The thing swiveled its head, casting about for what it desired, and then it saw her. Its face split into a grin and it beckoned, extending a long, limp finger in her direction.
Holly struggled to rise to her feet, but her panic could not surmount her weakness, and she fell back. Again she begged her feet to carry her, but they could not. The long, rubbery finger seemed to grow—it was almost reaching her, and Holly recoiled, shutting her eyes against the horror of its touch.
“Déjà vu, Holly?” It was Herrikhan’s voice.
The shriveled creature was gone, and the warlock stood before her in his familiar guise, grinning. Holly said wearily, “That was cruel.”
“That was nothing. I’ve had ample time to think about every detail of this day, my darling. You wouldn’t begrudge me a moment’s fun, would you? I’ve been planning that one for ten years.”
“I’m sure, but—”
“You look unwell, Holly. Do you find the weather unseasonable?”
Holly gazed at him unsteadily and took a deep breath. “Why are you bothering with all this talk? It’s over. Christopher’s safe,” she said with a gasp. “He’s got the locket. Tundra’s dead. I’m all alone. I’ll never be yours. You know that—I’ll never give you my heart. I’m not afraid to die.”
Herrikhan opened his mouth—Holly looked away—and snapped it shut. “Oh, you’ll die soon enough,” he said bitterly. “But I have an idea—a hope—it’s really quite possible—though I’m not certain. However, I can wait. You’ll find me a very patient husband, darling.” He ran a long, ragged finger along her arm, and Holly recoiled. “At the very least I’ll have the pleasure of watching Nicholas come too late to save you. You’re looking worse and worse, Holly, did you know that? Your heart is melting. Look at your hands—they’re transparent.”
Holly glanced down and saw that he told the truth. Her skin was becoming clear and brittle, like glass. As her blood faded and gave way, her breath became more labored; she felt as if her lungs were hardening into something sharp and fragile too. Each breath was piercing.
“Holly. Give up.” Herrikhan’s flat eyes looked almost human. “You aren’t meant for a painful death. Say the word—just one little yes, and I’ll save you. I’ll reach into your heart and make you whole again. You’ll feel neither pain nor sorrow ever again, for all eternity.”
Holly, scarcely able to speak now, whispered, “No. Never. I choose this.”
At that moment, as Herrikhan’s claw wavered in the thick air, a voice shouted across the empty landscape, “Holly!” Herrikhan faded from Holly’s side.
It was Christopher. She couldn’t see any longer, but he saw her, and the sight froze his soul. Holly had turned to glass; she lay before him still as death, and his first thought was that she had never been any more than an illusion. He felt his heart breaking. “No!” he cried, falling to his knees at her side, willing her to be alive. “Take it!” he commanded, pressing the golden locket into her icy hands. He could see it glimmer through her palms.
“Christopher, don’t do this,” begged Holly. “You promised me.”
“Thank God you’re alive,” he said, bending close to her. “I can bear anything if you’re alive.”
“Take it back,” she pleaded. Already, the locket was working its magic; her breath did not feel like knives now, and her glass skin was less fragile. But she dreaded the feeling of her returning life, because she knew what the price would be. “You promised that you wouldn’t give it up.”
“I promised I wouldn’t give it up to him. I didn’t say anything about you.”
Holly was able to lift her head now. She looked about, but Herrikhan had disappeared. “He’s here, even if we can’t see him. Please, Christopher. He’ll kill you.” She held out the locket with shaking hands.
“No, Holly,” he said, looking at her tenderly. “If this saves you, it saves me as well, even if I die.”
Suddenly a scabbed silver figure appeared. Wordlessly the creature stared at Christopher with his yellowed eyes, and then he raised his hand.
Christopher glanced at the creature, and his face registered no fear. “Good-bye, my Holly,” he said. As though he counted time in years instead of minutes, he raised her soft hand to his lips and kissed it lingeringly. “I believe you.”
He rose and turned to Herrikhan. His face hardened. “I’ll not make it easy for you,” he said, stepping toward the shrunken warlock.
In all the centuries of his immortal life, no human had ever moved toward Herrikhan, but only away. He was shaken, Holly saw, by Christopher’s steady advance. He wavered, took a step back—and then rallied. “You won’t make it easy for me?” Herrikhan sneered. “Well. How courageous. This promises to be more amusing than I expected. Do tell me how you intend to make it difficult.”
Christopher lunged for him, wrapping his strong hands around the warlock’s throat. Herrikhan let out a surprised grunt and stumbled back, and for a moment he seemed unable to speak. Then he gathered together his forces and let forth a roar. “You dare to lay hands on me, you worm?” he screamed. “You. Will. Die!” He raised his arms and there came a mighty, grinding roar, and the lowering purple clouds suddenly met in a murderous crash. The silence that had lain over the land so threateningly erupted into a heaving, tossing storm, and the trees thrashed together as if they were sticks held by giants. The meadow’s smooth curves buckled and furrowed as though something boiled beneath the ground.
Holly closed her eyes. She could not bear to see the end.
But then, though the wind wailed and seethed, though the trees lurched from the muddy ground as if bent on their own destruction, though the mad buzzing of the insects underground droned louder than ever, a soft, even sound suddenly made itself heard. It was rhythmic, it was moving closer and closer—it was the sound of hundreds of people, children and grown-ups both, summoned by the dream dolls they held in their hands. Gracefully, drawn by some force that made them as light as air and as strong as love, they moved toward the meadow in a great arc. In the thick glow of the heat, they seemed to shimmer, and she rubbed her eyes. But they were still there when she looked again. There was Jeremy, at the front, with Empy under his arm and Sidewalk at his feet. Phoebe and her brothers. Louise and her grandfather. Mr. Kleiner, with his hand in Mrs. Kleiner’s. The roly-poly twins, the girls from the street, the sliding shopgirls, the pudgy babies and flyaway mothers, the nurses, the coachmen, the urchins, and all the dreamy, serious, and silly children who had taken their dolls from her hands and suddenly seen their dreams take shape. There were Bat, Marty, Grub, Joan, and all the children from the Place. Mr. McElhenny and his wife. Euphemia flapped overhead, and Lexy sat solemnly with her tail wrapped around her legs. And there were Charles and Dr. Braunfels, slightly out of breath, and Miss Bellows leading Jerome and Harrison by either hand. And Evelyn and Alice, supporting Lissy between them. They had all come for Holly, as she had come for them.
She took a deep breath and opened her eyes. “Love conquers time,” she whispered. But how? How could she stop time for Christopher, who now stood alone in the meadow that roiled with Herrikhan’s evil force? Already, she saw with a racing heart, thin silver coils erupted from the mud and crept toward him. Christopher watched them, his eyes narrowed, and when the first slithering strand slid over his feet, he wrenched it away furiously. The eyeless reptile quivered and drew back, but it was replaced by a seething cluster of its fellows. The fleshy strands choked and grappled him, ever closer, ever tighter, and Holly watched helplessly as Christopher’s hands were bound by two thick coils. A rope circled his throat.
Herrikhan’s scabbed face bent toward hers, and she felt his fetid breath on her neck as he whispered, “You could save him.”
Holly made no reply.
The yellow sky sucked in its breath, and the trees stood still. All was quiet, save for the smooth slipping of the silver coil
s.
“He doesn’t have to die,” Herrikhan’s mossy mouth muttered in her ear. “Give me your heart.”
Holly looked up to the sky. In a blinding instant, she knew. The truth rang like golden bells in her heart. “Herrikhan,” she said, her voice strong and sure, “if you will set Christopher free, I will not only give you my heart. I will love you.”
Herrikhan drew back. His pewter eyes thinned. “What?” he said.
“If you let him live, I will go with you willingly, and I will love you,” said Holly. Fear had vanished from her, and she looked at Herrikhan with clear eyes.
“Love?” His voice sounded uncertain.
“Yes. I will love you,” said Holly.
It was the one thing he had never planned for. He shivered at the weakness that he felt moving through his hollow veins. “M-me?” he stuttered. “You would love me? After what I’ve done to bring misery to you and everyone you care about, you would love me?”
“I forgive you,” said Holly. She looked at him with the strength that comes from truth.
“He doesn’t have to die,” Herrikhan’s mossy mouth muttered in her ear. “Give me your heart.”
He felt a tiny jolt, the stab of a needle, somewhere in the region where his heart once resided. Oh, he thought. No. Not this. He remembered, so many centuries before, the same stab. It had been love then and it was love now. Not this, he thought once more, before his silver skin began to collapse into dust. Desperately he fought to regain his power, but like an ancient skeleton brought from its coffin to the breathing air, the material that gave him form dissolved in the light of love. “Holly Claus, you have conquered me. You have conquered evil,” he said, his voice as dry and weightless as leaves flying in the wind. His face cracked open as he spoke and, like sand, the scales of his skin blew into the air bit by bit. In a minute only his robe was left, the stained yellow shape sustained by the memory of its inhabitant. Then it, too, shredded and fluttered into dust. He was gone.