When she turned she almost tripped over the Stone Girl.
"Your name is Sam, right?" the little girl asked.
Much as she wanted to right now, she couldn't just ignore the child. "Yes, I'm Sam."
"Your friend wanted me to tell you something."
"My friend?" She squatted beside her, suddenly intent. "What friend?"
"The man with curly hair and no shirt." The Stone Girl looked worried. "Isn't he your friend?"
"What did he say? Tell me!"
"I have to remember." The little girl wrinkled her loamy forehead. The poked holes that were her eyes squinted in concentration. "He said . . . he said. . . ."
"Come on!"
The Stone Girl shot her an offended look. "I'm thinking! He said . . . that you were with friends now so he could leave and he'd know you were all right." The frown turned into a pleased smile. "That's what he said! I remembered!"
"Leave to do what? Where did he go?" Sam grabbed the little girl's arm. "Did he tell you? Did you see which direction he went?"
She shook her head. "No. He pointed to where you were and told me to hurry up and go." The Stone Girl turned and indicated a spot far down the shoreline of the great pit. "He was over there."
And then Sam remembered. "Oh, fenfen! He thinks Renie's down there—he said he was going to go find her!" The Stone Girl looked at her curiously but Sam had no more time to talk. She sprinted across the long, gradual slope of the Gypsy camp, away from the wall of wagons and the campfires, down toward the uneven shore.
I should get the others, she thought. Paul and Martine—I couldn't stop him by myself. . . . But already she saw a slender figure silhouetted at the pulsing edge of the Well, familiar despite the unsteadiness of the outline. She knew she would never reach the others and get back in time.
"!Xabbu!" she shouted. "Wait!"
If he heard her he gave no sign. He stood a moment longer, poised at the edge of the glimmering ocean of blue and pale yellow and misty silver light, then took a few steps forward and jumped into the pit. It was not a dive but a suicide's staggering leap, the first graceless thing she had ever seen !Xabbu do.
"No! Noooo!"
Within seconds she had reached the spot where he had stood. There was no sign of him, only the strange ferment of light in motion.
He told me he was so scared of the water. But he jumped into . . . this. . . . She went cold from her feet to her head. He must have been so afraid. . . !
She knew that if she considered for another second her better sense would take charge—she would turn and walk back to the Gypsy camp with a hole right through the middle of herself. Lost Orlando, she thought wildly. And Renie. Not !Xabbu, too! She tottered on the edge for an instant, then flung herself after him.
It was not water that rose up to claim her but something far more strange—a vibrant, fizzing, electrical wash that seemed to flow right through her. Her eyes popped open as if yanked by strings but there was no depth or breadth, nothing at all to see but an impossible simultaneity of blackness and blinding light.
How can I find him. . . ? she wondered, but only for a second. The scintillant ocean contracted around her, squeezing her up and out like a bar of wet soap from a fist. Orlando said . . . it didn't want me. . . . Then she was lying stunned and twitching on the bank, unable to do anything but stare at the Well as lazy bubbles of light formed and burst beneath the surface. She watched them with a strange detachment, wondering if this was what it felt like to die. Voices were coming closer, Florimel's and Martine's and others, all shouting something that must be her name, but she could feel nothing except the uncommon sensation of having been tasted and then spat out again.
Paul knelt down beside Florimel. "Is Fredericks all right? What's wrong with her?"
Despite all that had happened, Florimel had not lost her distinctive bedside manner. "How in the devil's name should I know? She is breathing. She is semiconscious. God alone knows what caused this."
"Jumped," T4b said. "Just jumped in, all sayee lo. Saw it, me."
"But why?" Paul asked.
Martine was squinting out toward the pulsating lights with the expression of someone leaning into a terrible windstorm. "She was searching for !Xabbu. . . ."
"Jesus, does that mean. . . ?" Paul's stomach lurched—to find them both after all this time, then to lose one of them so quickly, maybe both of them. . . .
Martine abruptly swung around, putting her back to the unstable sea. Her face was haggard. "We have a greater problem now," she said.
"What?" Paul stared at the Well, but saw nothing different. He turned until he was facing the same direction as Martine, looking out across the plain. "Oh. Oh, damn."
It was only a distant speck and should have been invisible in the deep twilight, but the man-shape had a disturbing negative radiance of its own, as if it were not entirely part of the world through which it passed.
"He's not a giant anymore," Paul said. That startling change should have given him hope, but there was something so horridly fascinating about the thing named Dread walking toward them across the dead gray land, stride after measured stride, that it seemed to make no difference. Fear washed through Paul, a sick, paralyzing terror as powerful as the aura around the Twins, but somehow even worse: where those two were cruel and destructive, this lightless specter seemed a thing of pure, focused evil.
"He has shed what was unnecessary," Martine said. "He has been burned and battered until he has hardened like a black diamond. But it is him." Her voice was listless with horror. "The Other could not keep him out."
Their companions had seen it, too, and stood staring in drop-jawed surprise, mesmerized by the advancing figure. Voices cried out all around them, wails of despair that proved the refugees could sense what was coming. As the invisible cloud of fear swept over them the fairy-tale folk at the outer edge of the encampment turned and fled from the distant stranger, shoving their way toward the Well. Their flight set off a mass panic; hundreds more joined them, shrieking down the slope towards the edge of the great pit like a herd of deer running before a wildfire. Paul and the others had to make a wall around Sam Fredericks, linking arms to keep themselves from being swept over the edge by the crush of maddened refugees.
"Where is Nandi?" Martine shouted. "And the Simpkins woman and the little boy?"
"Somewhere in the crowd!" Paul held on to T4b's arm for dear life as a trio of weeping goats backed into them. Even when Paul smacked at the nearest with his fist, the goats paid no attention, bleating, "Troll, troll, troll!" in tones of helpless horror as they stared out at the approaching shadow.
I just hope he kills that bastard Jongleur first, was Paul's only coherent thought.
The crush of terrified creatures was shoving hard now, pushing them back despite their best efforts, until Paul could see the Well just behind them. Some of the other refugees were forced screaming over the edge of the pit; they disappeared into the silent wash of light and did not come up. T4b's elbow was locked in Paul's; the youth was murmuring what seemed to be a prayer. Florimel screamed at them all to move closer together to keep Fredericks from being stepped on. Paul felt another arm slip through his and a body push close against him. It was Martine. Something of a child's unalloyed fright was in her face. Paul hooked her arm more tightly.