Chapter 5, Part vi

“I can't believe it, I just can't,” Hector said. “There must be some mistake, gentlemen! The Professor Trellis I know is a librarian, and a true librarian would never turn evil! Never!”

“Do shut him up, please,” the Professor lazily said, and River stepped closer to Hector. He made a movement with his arms, and more vines shot out from the foliage and wrapped themselves tightly around Hector's middle, pinning his arms in place.

“If you say anything more, you'll get much worse than that,” River warned, pressing gently on Hector's nose with a clawed finger. Hector nodded carefully.

“And my, my, my, what do we have here?” the Professor continued. He strode casually over to Aric, looked down with something approaching fatherly concern and shook his head pityingly. “Oh, my dear Aric, how far you have come, and how little you had left to go to finish your quest. It's too bad you ran into a little trouble on the way, hmm? I'm afraid your little adventure has been in vain. But thank you for bringing us the vorpal sword: you've saved us a lot of trouble.”

Aric didn't say anything. For some reason, he seemed pallid and deathly as he looked up at Professor Trellis. The latter began to chuckle, and it soon turned to a full-throated, thundering, legitimately villainous laugh. Hector was impressed: Trellis had obviously practiced this laugh for a long time, and had gotten it down just right.

“Laugh with me! Ha ha ha haaa!”

The surrounding Mome Raths joined in his malicious mirth with varying degrees of skill and intensity. Gribley sheepishly opened his mouth, though the laughter that came out was limp and hollow.

Letting his laughter linger in his voice, Professor Trellis motioned lazily to River. “Pick him up, will you? Feel free to do it rudely.” With a cruel grin, River gripped Aric's frozen shoulders and jerked him violently to his feet. A brief shower of ice crystals drifted to the ground. “On second thought,” the Professor added, “Make him kneel. Yes, I want him to kneel. That would be nice.” River gladly obliged: he swiftly kicked the back of Aric's knee, dropping him to the ground with a pained cry. As the surrounding Mome Raths cheered with derision, River summoned some more vines and used them to tie Aric's wrists together behind his back.

“Aric!” Hector blurted. Burr struggled on the ground and tried to speak, but he started coughing painfully instead.

Professor Trellis swung his head to look at Hector with an expression of mock confusion. “Aric? Aric? Really?” He shook his head chidingly at the kneeling man and clicked his tongue. “Is that what you're having them call you? I expected more of you... Gerard.”

“Gerard?” Hector asked. “Why did you call him Gerard, if his name is Ar--”

“His name is most definitely not Aric!” scoffed the Professor. He motioned with his head at River, who delivered another nasty kick, and the man called Aric fell flat on his face. He made no move to rise. Trellis's face contorted into a sneer of contempt, and he nudged at Aric with his boot as he drew circles in the dirt with the golden sword. “This is not the man you think he is. You probably think he's some sort of selfless hero, eh? Go on, tell us the truth; if we're coming out into the open with everything, we might as well not hold anything back. So tell me: what do you think of 'Aric', Mr. Blithe?”

“He is indeed a selfless hero!” Hector pronounced boldly. “He saved my life! He's going to slay the Jabberwock with the vorpal sword, just you wait and see?”

“Is that what he's been telling you,” Trellis said quietly. It was a statement, not a question. He licked his lips as he thought of how to form his next words. “How can I put this so that your naïve, tender mind can comprehend? You have been traveling with this man for some days now. You've obviously brought up each others' pasts at least once in your journeyings. Am I not correct? And has Gerard even once told you the truth about who he really is? What he has really done?”

Hector opened his mouth to speak, but shut it again. No, he hasn't, he thought, but he dared not say it aloud. Aric still didn't move, but he was still breathing and very likely still conscious. Why isn't he defending himself? What has he got to hide?

“You're probably wondering why he isn't defending himself; you might even be asking yourself: What has Aric got to hide that's so important that he'll never talk about it?” Trellis continued sadly. “You see, boy, Gerard didn't tell you the truth about his past because you never would have trusted him had he done so. You would never have played along in his little scheme.”

“What do you mean?” Hector asked; his frozen legs were cold, but the chill in his heart was colder still.

Trellis pondered, fondling the hilt of the vorpal sword as though it were a walking cane, then spoke. “What I mean is... Aric – or Gerard – is not the hero you think he is. He is a traitor, a liar and a thief. Yes, a thief: he didn't earn this golden sword, he stole it. He abandoned those that he once called his friends, stole a priceless artifact from the New Poliston Museum of Ancient History, and made off to slay a mythical monster in hopes that somehow he could make a name for himself. Hah. As if this could erase all of his past crimes.

“Oh, and there's one last thing I forgot to mention, and which surely he has never brought up in your presence... Aric is a Mome Rath.”

“What!” Hector shouted in disbelief. Even Burr sat up in shock, making himself cough again. One of the human cultists approached him from behind and pulled him down again, stepping on his chest with a heavy black boot to keep him down. “What!” Hector cried again, unable to process what he had heard. Aric, a Mome Rath? Impossible... wasn't it?

Trellis placed a hand on his chest in a parody of innocence and indignation. “You mean you don't believe me? I'm hurt! Very well, then. Go ahead and ask Gerard, he'll tell you if I'm lying. Right, Gerry? Move your head, make a sound, so something, if what I've said is not true. Are you a Mome Rath, or aren't you? Go on.”

But Aric – or Gerard – didn't move at all. River chuckled softly and shook his head.

“Aric, is that true?” Hector asked. Still no movement. “Aric, can't you hear me? Are you really one of them?”

Aric remained completely still, but his breathing was the heavy and belabored gasps of someone who had just gotten in a fight, not the rhythmic breathing of the unconscious. Hector felt like his heart, lungs and gut all shrunk together to the size of a raisin. He sagged in despair. “No...”

“Oh, yes, I'm afraid, he's quite the Mome Rath. After three years of dedicated service to the cause, Gerard was even advanced to Fourth Prefect of the Advancement of Aboriginal Orientation, which is no small feat, mind you. If I remember correctly, our little Gerry translated the Manxor Fenkhe; obliterated the Wall of Trosser at Verpoor City; killed and impersonated the personal chef of Duke Rilchiam, and subsequently poisoned said Duke – feel free to stop me at any time, Gerry – assassinated the Prillian Ambassador from Old Hume, slayed an Extra-Dimensional Face-Shredder all by himself, and was instrumental in the bringing down of Borogrove Hexteo, which is basically the center of Tovish history and knowledge, apart from the Tulgey Wood, of course. Like a library. I thought you'd appreciate that, Hector. Don't worry, all of the records there were removed to... safer venues, might we say. And last but not least, and for which we are eternally indebted to him, coined the Slith-Chora ritual; you know, the one that lets us steal the Gyres from Toves.”

“No!” shouted Burr, and thrashed around with renewed vigor in his vine-shackles. “Don't take Gyres, that is the most evil--”

“Shut up, you,” said the Mome Rath lackey, and pressed down on Burr's chest with his boot. The Tove convulsed in an uncontrollable coughing fit.

“And,” Professor Trellis laughed, holding up a finger with obvious enjoyment, “And! Even though we can't credit this entirely to Gerard, we can most certainly thank him for giving us the idea so take Gyres from innocent Toves and combine them all into the perfect super-warrior.” He gestured theatrically toward River, who swelled with pride.

“Are those de-slithed Toves all the zombie slaves you use?” Hector asked, gesturing with his head at the hooded creatures standing among the trees.

“Very astute, Mr. Blithe,” Trellis said with a gracious nod. “You're catching on very quickly. Yes, these are indeed the very same Toves. Here, let me show you the final results...” Trellis beckoned to one of the shrouded Toves, who obediently approached and stood by his side.

(Graphic 5.10: Professor Trellis reaches toward the creature's head, then quickly pulls back its hood. We see the face of a female Tove, with coloring similar to that of Lilly and River; her eyes are wide, blank and colorless, with a lifeless expression.)

The sight of the Tovish girl, aside from inspiring a sort of sickened horror in him, strangely made Hector's mind race. Had he seen her somewhere before?

The Professor replaced the hood with a slight look of disgust, covering the girl's face once more. “But, of course, we keep them hooded because it's rather unnerving to have them staring at you like that all the time. Oh! I almost forgot,” he added, and eagerly approached Hector. With one meaty hand using the vorpal sword like a walking-stick, he placed his other heavily on Hector's languid shoulder and squeezed. “Where is the Manxor Slithe, pray? We have need of it.”

Hector couldn't bring himself to look Professor Trellis in the eye. “I don't have it, sir.”

He harrumphed. “Hmph. Somehow that doesn't surprise me. Well, Manxor Slithe or no, we have work to do; it would certainly be handy to have that book right about now, but we are a resourceful group, and we can definitely make do with the materials at hand.”

He took a step back and surveyed the situation once more; a brief gloating smile crossed his face when his eyes landed on the inert form of Aric. “Ladies and gentlemen, I believe we must move on, toward our primary objective, and leave aside for now our trophies of war. What do you think?”

This raised an eager uproar from the Mome Raths. Trellis basked in the adulation for a moment, then signaled lazily toward Aric, Hector and Burr. “My thoughts exactly. Then somebody please take these loiterers, who have so rudely intruded upon the sacred Tulgey Wood without permission, and tie them up someplace where we can see them. We have some work to do with the Tumtum tree.” Everyone burst into motion; some procured strange, arcane objects from their pockets and robes, while others carried stacks of old books for yet other, superior Mome Raths. A few of them moved to act on the Professor's orders, but mostly let the enslaved Toves do all the work. One of them quickly cracked the thick ice holding Hector in place and tied his feet, then slung him roughly onto its shoulder. His head bobbed uncomfortably as his captor walked along, and Hector's view was full of the Tove's black-tipped tail. It hung limply as its owner walked. For the first time, he realized just how expressive these tails were on normal, slithy Toves.

Burr was similarly flung across a thrall's back and was toted away coughing and clenching his teeth. But Hector only had eyes for Aric: he was hauled to his feet by a Tove on either side and half-escorted, half-dragged in the same direction. His head hung low and his shaggy hair obscured his face.

“Psst! Aric! Hey, Aric, look up!” Hector hissed, but a nearby human slapped Hector across the cheek with a black silk glove.

“Silence! We'll have not a peep outta you.”

“But I wasn't peeping, I was trying to get Aric to look up,” Hector said innocently, which earned him another slap.

“I said silence, or I'll have this Tove here do somethin' worse than slap you, eh? See if I don't.”

“Sorry.” They traveled only a short distance before the green, glowing trees ended and the forest opened into a wide, mossy clearing. He couldn't get a decent view – he could only see backwards – but he sensed that this was a very important place. Even the Mome Raths had stopped chattering and were speaking in awed whispers. Hector tried to twist around to get a look from beneath the Tove's arm, but the man in charge gave him another stinging slap and threatened him again.

Suddenly he was brusquely deposited onto the mossy dirt, next to a huge, rotting log. Burr was dropped with a thump some feet away to Hector's left, as was Aric on his other side; he still hung his head and refused to look at anyone or anything. Hector couldn't see his eyes. Somewhere along the way they had bound his hands and feet as well.

The chubby man who had slapped Hector stood over the three of them with what he probably supposed was a menacing face. “I'm here to make sure you don't do anything shifty,” he declared, but suddenly a call rang out from one of his fellows, and he nervously looked over his shoulder. “Em,” he said, glancing hesitantly at Hector, “Sorry. Got to go. Behave yourselves, or else! I mean it!” He dashed off into the semi-darkness, leaving them in the charge of several statuesque Tove-thralls and one human.

“Mr. Gribley,” Hector hissed, for it was Eugene Gribley, standing nearby in his typical apologetic, stoop-shouldered stance. The skinny clerk risked a glance in Hector's direction, but quickly pushed his glasses farther up his nose and looked away in shame. “Hey! Mr. Gribley! Can I talk to you for a second? Just for a moment?”

Second-guessing his post, Mr. Gribley shuffled closer to Hector. “H-Hello, Mr. Blithe. I'm sorry we h-had to do this to you, it wasn't my choice, you see, I wouldn't like to see you in a bind like this, but orders and all, I can't disobey orders.”

“That's okay, you've always been good at obeying orders,” Hector said truthfully. “But I didn't know you were a Mome Rath! How long have you been part of them?”

It was impossible for Gribley's face to be any more panicked and regretful. “I – I've been with them for about five years now, but I never took part in the full-time stuff, mostly j-just the, you know, annual and quarterly reunions, it was like a book club, more'n anything else, excepting of course they were ancient books on arcane life-sucking rituals, not like my wife's novellas. I did it 'cos I needed a place to feel important, to feel needed, you understand. Yes? Yes.” He pushed his glasses up his generous nose again.
Hector nodded amiably. “Yes, I understand, a place where you could contribute meaningfully. I know exactly what you mean. But you had your job! You're the town clerk! You had tons of connections and friends, and you have a very important career.”

“It's not what you'd think,” Gribley meekly pointed out. “I needed a brotherhood of sorts. Anyway, it's complicated, I... I can't explain it all right now, they might see me. You've got to understand, Mr. Blithe.” He adjusted his glasses for the ninth time.

“Have you ever thought of leaving the Mome Raths? Perhaps you could join our book club at the library. Right now we're reading Grilbag Stevens' The Pirate Who Turned Lawyer. It's a fascinating story, and it's quickly becoming one of my favorites. I really think you'd enjoy it. What do you think?"

Gribley hungrily took in every word with eager eyes and ears, and for a moment Hector was almost sure that he would renounce the Mome Raths then and there; but the clerk blinked and his face returned to its terrified, lamenting expression. “It's very tempting, Mr. Blithe. Very tempting indeed. But... it's complicated, like I said, I can't just leave. You don't just quit the Honorable Guild of the Mome Raths. I can't. I...” He peeked toward the rest of the cultists, who were gathered in a large circle, and adjusted his glasses for the sixteenth time.

Finally he met Hector's eyes. “I'm sorry, Hector. I'm sorry,” he whispered sincerely. “I'm sorry...”

The skinny man in black turned and shied away as fast as he could, loping back toward the main group of Mome Raths. Hector was about to cry out after him, but thought better of it after noticing the Toves standing guard. He sighed, and lolled his head to the left.

“What do you think, Burr? What do we do now?” he asked, but Burr gave a single painful cough and focused on the pain in his chest. Hector chanced a look to the right.

“Aric? Hey, Aric?”

(Graphic 5.11: Hector looks longingly at Aric, whose head is hung low. His face is hidden.)

“I still think you're a hero,” Hector said quietly.