The Ever Breath by Julianna Baggott Read Free Book Online Page A

It was covered with yeast sacks, gears, a bucket of corks, fine woven cloth, and tools he couldn’t name. In the corner, in large baskets, were the berries themselves—so pale they looked like small, bright full moons. Truman dipped his hand into a basket of the cool fruits. He could feel the soft prickle of their fine downy fur, soft as peach fuzz. He realized that he was breathing in calm, regular breaths.
    And then the cry. “Mewl-mewl.”
    He’d almost forgotten the cat! He looked around the edges of the root cellar and caught a glimpse of it darting along the far wall before it slipped into a hole dug in the dirt amid a network of vines.
    Truman walked to the hole, got down on his knees, and tried to peer into the darkness. “Come on out!” he called. “I’ll keep you safe.”
    He couldn’t see anything and so he reached into the hole, clutching the snow globe with his other arm. His hand slid down a steep and crumbling tunnel lined with bumpy roots.
    “Where are you?” he whispered. “What kind of tunnel is this?” He let his arm follow his hand and then let his head—chin tucked—and his chest follow.
    He heard the cat mewl, but now it sounded like she was saying “Follow, follow.”
    Truman crawled down this strange, dark root-lined tunnel. The tunnel seemed to widen ever so slightly, but still he felt like he was being swallowed by the dirt. He thought back to the day before, when they were looking for his grandmother’s house.
Swallow Road
. He thought of Swelda’s tasting tale—the one he’d swallowed piece by piece. His heart raced in his chest. Would he be able to get back out of here?
    It was too late to worry about that. The tunnel narrowed now, and he had to crawl on his elbows.
    “Follow, follow,” he heard again.
    The tunnel was tight, and the roots dug into his bony knees, but up ahead he saw something glowing.
    He crawled more quickly.
    It was a wine bottle glowing like a lamp. The label read “Swelda’s Browsenberry Wine.” Up ahead he saw anotherglowing bottle and then another and another. He kept following them on his belly through the dirt, until he heard mewling again. But it wasn’t just one voice. It was many voices, all mewling at the same time.
    Then, without warning, the tunnel widened into a round room. The ceiling was suddenly tall enough for him to stand up. A tall root, straight as a post, shot up from the earth. It was encircled by glowing jars. The root was thin and delicate, with five thin offshoots that formed a hand: four long branchlike fingers and one thick thumb. It was poised as if it should be holding an apple up in the air. But it was empty. And the pinky on the hand looked brittle and was curling slightly inward, as if injured.
    Truman stepped around the jars. Although the room was dug out of the earth and wrapped in roots, it seemed like a sacred place. Where
was
he?
    He heard the cat’s human voice again: “Follow, follow.”
    It was coming from the other side of the room, where the tunnel continued. Truman looked over his shoulder. He wanted to go back to the house, to his bed, to Camille’s snores. What good did his imagination ever do him? It got him in trouble during the day and it made it impossible to fall asleep at night. But, this very moment, he was imagining that there was something at the other end of the tunnel—something magical. He thought of the Breath World in his grandmother’s tasting tale, and he could almost feel it calling to him from deep in the tunnel that lay in front of him. Was it real? And was this the way to it? He knew that if Camille were here she would say something like “Truman is afraid of the teacup ride at the amusement park. He’ll turn aroundany second now and come home.” But he wasn’t turning around. He wasn’t going home. He would follow the tunnel and see what was on the other end.
    As he walked across the room, he stepped on something with his bare foot—something small and crisp, stiffer than a