I continued struggling, but that was obviously useless. If it was possible to break free with just muscles, then Bastille would manage to long before I did.
So, instead, I focused on the goop itself. What could I determine about it? The stuff in my mouth seemed slightly softer than the stuff around the outside of my body. Was there a reason for that? Spit, perhaps? Maybe the goop didn’t harden when it was wet.
I began to drool out some saliva, trying to get it on the goop. Spit began to seep out of the top of my mouth, and down the front of the glob of goop on my face.
“Uh … Alcatraz?” Bastille asked. “You all right?”
I tried to grunt in a reassuring way. But then, I’ve found that it’s very hard to grunt eloquently when you’re spitting.
After several minutes, I came to the unpleasant conclusion that the goop didn’t dissolve in saliva. Unfortunately, now I was not only being held tightly by a sheet of hardened black tar, I’d also drooled all over the front of my shirt.
“Getting frustrated?” a Curator asked, hovering around me in a circle. “How long will you struggle? You need not be able to speak. Simply blink three times if you want to trade your soul for the way out.”
I kept my eyes wide open. They began to dry out, which was appropriately ironic, considering the state of my shirt.
The Curator looked disappointed, but continued to hover. Why bother with all of the cajoling? I wondered. We’re in their power. Why not kill us? Why not just take our souls from us by force?
That thought made me pause. If they hadn’t done that already, then it probably meant that they couldn’t. Which seemed to imply that they were bound by some kind of laws or a code or something.
My jaw was getting tired. It seemed an odd thing to think of. I was being held tightly in all places, and I was worried about my jaw? Was that because it wasn’t being held as tightly as the rest? But I’d already determined that. The goop in my mouth wasn’t as hard.
So, uncertain what else to do, I bit down. Hard. Surprisingly, my teeth cut through the stuff, and the chunk of goop came off in my mouth. Suddenly the entire blanket of it—the stuff covering me, Bastille, Kaz, and the floor—shuddered.
What? I thought. The stuff I’d bitten off immediately became liquid again, and I nearly choked as I was forced to swallow it. The piece in front of my face withdrew slightly after the bite, and I could still see it wiggling. Almost as if … the entire blob were alive.
I shivered. Yet I didn’t have many options. Wiggling my head a bit—it was looser now that the stuff had retreated from my face—I snapped forward and took another bite out of the stuff. It shook and pulled farther away. I leaned over, and—spitting out the chunk of tarry-bananaish stuff—I took another bite.
The blanket of goop pulled back from me completely, like a shy dog that had been kicked. The metaphor seemed apt, and so I kicked it.
The blob shook, then retreated off Bastille and Kaz, fleeing away down the corridor. I spat a few times, grimacing at the taste. Then I eyed the Curators. “Perhaps you should train your traps a little better.”
They did not look pleased. Kaz, on the other hand, was smiling widely. “Kid, I’m almost tempted to make you an official short person!”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Course, we’d have to cut your legs off at the knees,” Kaz said. “But that would be a small price to pay!” He winked at me. I’m pretty sure that was a joke.
I shook my head, stepping out of the rubbled pocket I’d made in the floor with my Talent. My shoes barely hung to my feet, and I kicked them off, forced to walk barefoot.
Still, I’d gotten us free. I turned, smiling, to Bastille. “Well, I believe that makes two traps I’ve saved you from.”
“Oh?” she said. “And are we going to start a count of the ones you got me into, as well? Who was it who stepped on that tripwire again?”
I felt my face reddening.
“Any one of us could have tripped it, Bastille,” Kaz said, walking up to us. “As fun as that was, I’m starting to think it might be a good idea if we didn’t hit any more of those. We need to go more carefully.”
“You think?” Bastille asked flatly. “The trick is, I can’t scout ahead. Not if you’re leading us with your Talent.”
“We’ll just have to be more cautious then,” Kaz said. I looked down at the tripwire, thinking about the danger. We couldn’t afford to stumble into every one of those we came across. Who knew if we’d even be able to think of a way out of the next one?
“Kaz, Bastille, wait a second.” I reached into a pocket, pulling out my Lenses. I left the Windstormer’s Lenses alone and put on the Discerner’s Lenses—the ones that Grandpa Smedry had left for me up above.
Immediately, everything around me began to give off a faint glow, indicating how old it was. I looked down. Sure enough, the tripwire glowed far lighter than the stones or the scrolls around it. It was newer than the original construction of the building. I looked up, smiling. “I think I’ve found a way around the problem.”
“Are those Discerner’s Lenses?” Bastille asked.
I nodded.
“Where in the sands did you get a pair of those?”
“Grandpa Smedry left them for me,” I said. “Outside, along with a note.” I frowned, glancing at the Curators. “Speaking of which, didn’t you say you’d return the writings you took from me?”
The creatures glanced at one another. Then, one of them approached, betraying a sullen look. The apparition bent down and set some things on the ground: copies of my tags, the wrapper that had been taken from me, and Grandpa Smedry’s note. There were also copies of the money I’d given them—they were perfect replicas, except that they were colorless.
Great, I thought. But I probably didn’t need that anymore anyway. I stooped down to gather the things, which all glowed brightly, since they all had been created brand-new. Bastille took the note, looked it over with a frown, then handed it to Kaz.
“So, your father really is down here somewhere,” she said.
“Looks like it.”
“And … the Curators claim he already gave up his soul.”
I fell silent. They gave back my papers when I asked, I thought, and they keep trying to get us to agree to give away our souls, but they don’t take them by force. They’re bound by rules.
I should have realized this earlier. You see, everything is bound by rules. Society has laws, as does nature, as do people. Many of society’s rules have to do with expectations—which I’ll talk about later—and therefore can be bent. A lot of nature’s laws, however, are hard-set.
There are many more of these than you might expect. In fact, there are even natural laws relating to this book, my favorite of which is known as the Law of Pure Awesomeness. This law simply states that any book I write is awesome. I’m sorry, but it’s a fact.
Who am I to argue with science?
“You,” I said, looking toward a Curator. “Your kind have laws, don’t they?”
The Curator paused. “Yes,” it finally said. “Do you want to read them? I can give you a book that explains them in detail.”
“No,” I said. “No, I don’t want to read about them. I want to hear about them. From you.”
The Curator frowned.
“You have to tell me, don’t you?” I said, smiling.
“It is my privilege to do so,” the creature said. Then it began to smile. “Of course, I am going to have to tell them to you in their original language.”
“We are impressed that you speak ancient Greek,” another said. “You are one who came to us prepared. There are few that do that these days.”