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In fact, no advice at all could be had from Mogget. Sabriel found him asleep in a field of flowers near the spring, his tail and paddy-paws twitching to a dream of dancing mice. Sabriel looked at the straw-yellow flowers, sniffed one, scratched Mogget behind the ears, then went back to the figurehead. The flowers were catbalm, explaining both Mogget’s previous mood and his current somnolence. She would have to make up her own mind.
“So,” she said, addressing the figurehead like a lawyer before a court. “You are the victim of some Free Magic spell and necromantic trickery. Your spirit lies neither in Life nor Death, but somewhere in between. I could cross into Death, and find you near the border, I’m sure—but I could find a lot of trouble as well. Trouble I can’t deal with in my current pathetic state. So what can I do? What would Father—Abhorsen . . . or any Abhorsen—do in my place?”
She thought about it for a while, pacing backwards and forwards, bruises temporarily forgotten. That last question seemed to make her duty clear. Sabriel felt sure her father would free the man. That’s what he did, that was what he lived for. The duty of an Abhorsen was to remedy unnatural necromancy and Free Magic sorcery.
She didn’t think further than that, perhaps due to the injudicious sniffing of the catbalm. She didn’t even consider that her father would probably have waited until he was fitter—perhaps till the next day. After all, this young man must have been incarcerated for many years, his physical body transformed into wood, and his spirit somehow trapped in Death. A few days would make no difference to him. An Abhorsen didn’t have to immediately take on any duty that presented itself . . .
But for the first time since she’d crossed the Wall, Sabriel felt there was a clear-cut problem for her to solve. An injustice to be righted and one that should involve little more than a few minutes on the very border of Death.
Some slight sense of caution remained with her, so she went and picked up Mogget, placing the dozing cat near the feet of the figurehead. Hopefully, he would wake up if any physical danger threatened—not that this was likely, given the wards and guards on the sinkhole. There were even barriers that would make it difficult to cross into Death, and more than difficult for something Dead to follow her back. All in all, it seemed like the perfect place to undertake a minor rescue.
Once more, she checked the bells, running her hands over the smooth wood of the handles, feeling their voices within, eagerly awaiting release. This time, it was Ranna she freed from its leather case. It was the least noticeable of the bells, its very nature lulling listeners, beguiling them to sleep or inattention.
Second thoughts brushed at her like doubting fingers, but she ignored them. She felt confident, ready for what would only be a minor stroll in Death, amply safeguarded by the protections of this royal necropolis. Sword in one hand, bell in the other, she crossed into Death.
Cold hit her, and the relentless current, but she stood where she was, still feeling the warmth of Life on her back. This was the very interface between the two realms, where she would normally plunge ahead. This time, she planted her feet against the current, and used her continuing slight contact with Life as an anchor to hold her own against the waters of Death.
Everything seemed quiet, save for the constant gurgling of the water about her feet, and the far-off crash of the First Gate. Nothing stirred, no shapes loomed up in the grey light. Cautiously, Sabriel used her sense of the Dead to feel out anything that might be lurking, to feel the slight spark of the trapped, but living, spirit of the young man. Back in Life, she was physically close to him, so she should be near his spirit here.
There was something, but it seemed further into Death than Sabriel expected. She tried to see it, squinting into the curious greyness that made distance impossible to judge, but nothing was visible. Whatever was there lurked beneath the surface of the water.
Sabriel hesitated, then walked towards it, carefully feeling her way, making sure of every footfall, guarding against the gripping current. There was definitely something odd out there. She could feel it quite strongly—it had to be the trapped spirit. She ignored the little voice at the back of her mind that suggested it was a fiercely devious Dead creature, strong enough to hold its own against the race of the river . . .
Nevertheless, when she was a few paces back from whatever it was, Sabriel let Ranna sound—a muffled, sleepy peal that carried the sensation of a yawn, a sigh, a head falling forward, eyes heavy—a call to sleep.
If there was a Dead thing there, Sabriel reasoned, it would now be quiescent. She put her sword and bell away, edged forward to a good position, and reached down into the water.
Her hands touched something as cold and hard as ice, something totally unidentifiable. She flinched back, then reached down again, till her hands found something that was clearly a shoulder. She followed this up to a head, and traced the features. Sometimes a spirit bore little relation to the physical body, and sometimes living spirits became warped if they spent too long in Death, but this one was clearly the counterpart of the figurehead. It lived too, somehow encased and protected from Death, as the living body was preserved in wood.
Sabriel gripped the spirit-form under the arms and pulled. It rose up out of the water like a killer whale, pallid white and rigid as a statue. Sabriel staggered backwards, and the river, ever-eager, wrapped her legs with tricksome eddies—but she steadied herself before it could drag her down.
Changing her hold a little, Sabriel began to drag the spirit-form back towards Life. It was hard going, much harder than she’d expected. The current seemed far too strong for this side of the First Gate, and the crystallized spirit—or whatever it was—was much, much heavier than any spirit should be.
With nearly all her concentration bent on staying upright and heading in the right direction, Sabriel almost didn’t notice the sudden cessation of noise that marked the passage of something through the First Gate. But she’d learned to be wary over the last few days, and her conscious fears had become enshrined in subconscious caution.
She heard, and listening carefully, caught the soft slosh-slosh of something half-wading, half-creeping, moving as quietly as it could against the current. Moving towards her. Something Dead was hoping to catch her unawares.
Obviously, some alarm or summons had gone out beyond the First Gate, and whatever was stalking towards her had come in answer to it. Inwardly cursing herself for stupidity, Sabriel looked down at her spirit burden. Sure enough, she could just make out a very thin black line, fine as cotton thread, running from his arm into the water—and thence to the deeper, darker regions of Death. Not a controlling thread, but one that would let some distant Adept know the spirit had been moved. Fortunately, sounding Ranna would have slowed the message, but was she close enough to Life . . .
She increased her speed a little, but not too much, pretending she hadn’t noticed the hunter. Whatever it was, it seemed quite reluctant to close in on her.
Sabriel quickened her pace a little more, adrenaline and suspense feeding her strength. If it rushed her, she would have to drop the spirit—and he would be carried away, lost forever. Whatever magic had preserved his living spirit here on the boundary couldn’t possibly prevail if he went past the First Gate. If that happened, Sabriel thought, she would have precipitated a murder rather than a rescue.
Four steps to Life—then three. The thing was closing now—Sabriel could see it, low in the water, still creeping, but faster now. It was obviously a denizen of the Third, or even some later Gate, for she couldn’t identify what it once had been. Now it looked like a cross between a hog and a segmented worm, and it moved in a series of scuttles and sinuous wriggles.
Two steps. Sabriel shifted her grip again, wrapping her left arm completely around the spirit’s chest and balancing the weight on her hip, freeing her right arm, but she still couldn’t draw her sword, or clear the bells.
The hog-thing began to grunt and hiss, breaking into a diving, rushing gallop, its long, yellow-crusted tusks surfing through
the water, its long body undulating along behind.
Sabriel stepped back, turned, and threw herself and her precious cargo headfirst into Life, using all her will to force them through the wards on the sinkhole. For an instant, it seemed that they would be repulsed, then, like a pin pushing through a rubber band, they were through.
Shrill squealing followed her, but nothing else. Sabriel found herself facedown on the ground, hands empty, ice crystals crunching as they fell from her frosted body. Turning her head, she met the gaze of Mogget. He stared at her, then closed his eyes and went back to sleep.
Sabriel rolled over, and got to her feet, very, very slowly. She felt all her pains come back and wondered why she’d been so hasty to perform deeds of derring-do and rescue. Still, she had managed it. The man’s spirit was back where it belonged, back in Life.
Or so she thought, till she saw the figurehead. It hadn’t changed at all to outward sight, though Sabriel could now feel the living spirit in it. Puzzled, she touched his immobile face, fingers tracing the grain of the wood.
“A kiss,” said Mogget sleepily. “Actually, just a breath would do. But you have to start kissing someone sometime, I suppose.”
Sabriel looked at the cat, wondering if this was the latest symptom of catbalm-induced lunacy. But he seemed sober enough, and serious.
“A breath?” she asked. She didn’t want to kiss just any wooden man. He looked nice enough, but he might not be like his looks. A kiss seemed very forward. He might remember it, and make assumptions.
“Like this?” She took a deep breath, leaned forward, exhaled a few inches from his nose and mouth, then stepped back to see what would happen—if anything.
Nothing did.
“Catbalm!” exclaimed Sabriel, looking at Mogget. “You shouldn’t—”
A small sound interrupted her. A small, wheezing sound, that didn’t come from her or Mogget. The figurehead was breathing, air whistling between carved wooden lips like the issue from an aged, underworked bellows.
The breathing grew stronger, and with it, color began to flow through the carving, dull wood giving way to the luster of flesh. He coughed, and the carven chest became flexible, suddenly rising and falling as he began to pant like a recovering sprinter.
His eyes opened and met Sabriel’s. Fine grey eyes, but muzzy and unfocused. He didn’t seem to see her. His fingers clenched and unclenched, and his feet shuffled, as if he were running in place. Finally, his back peeled away from the ship’s hull. He took one step forward, and fell into Sabriel’s arms.
She lowered him hastily to the ground, all too aware that she was embracing a naked young man—in circumstances considerably different than the various scenarios she’d imagined with her friends at school, or heard about from the earthier and more privileged day-girls.
