Lessoc Fountain - a fairy-creature tale

Ch. 31 Jean-Baptist's Cellar

Jean-Baptist had indeed been busy. He had buried the ends of all his tools in the four walls. Hammers, chisels, saws, picks, files—everything was sticking straight out from wood so the room resembled an inside-out hedgehog.

The air was electric with energy and as soon as Cocot stepped past the threshold the tool handles started to vibrate. Hair on her neck and arms lifted.

"Coquelicot." Soufflé's voice hissed a warning.

A whisper from the corner repeated her name. "Coquelicot."

"This is not a good idea," Soufflé said.

"Wait here." Cocot readied the key to the trap door in her clammy hand. It took four running leaps to reach the door.

Go!

She ran. The tools in the walls began to shake. She slid the last foot to the door. A hammer fell with a clatter.

She jammed the key in the lock and twisted it open, yanked the door up and reached for the lamp.

A hard-soled boot thumped on the wood in the corner.

Biting her lips closed, she tried to strike a spark. Two chisels shook loose from the walls, arching into the room. Another boot heel cracked. A saw leapt free and scraped over the floor towards her.

Hands trembling, she struck the flint again, frantic. If she could light the lantern she would be safe. The spark landed on the wick!

A cold breath blew across her fingers and extinguished the tiny flame.

He was right behind her.

"Coquelicot!" Soufflé shouted.

Icy fingers brushed her throat.

She screamed. She swung the lantern at empty air, lashing out wildly. The world turned sideways. She was falling. She tumbled downwards into the cellar opening. The ladder scraped her back and she grabbed for it. She hit the rocky floor with a bone-jarring thud. Lightning flashes of pain seared through her head.

The square of blue at the top of the cellar darkened to black. The trap door slammed shut.

It was pitch black. As black as a tomb.

"Soufflé!" Cocot screamed and pulled herself upright using the ladder. "Soufflé!"

Above, the table bumped and knocked on the workshop floor as though someone was moving it.

Jean-Baptist meant to bury her in here. The mildew filled space of the cellar closed in on her. The cellar was too small, too tight, too black. She was trapped. She could die in here.

"Hurry, Coquelicot, you have to get out now!" Soufflé yelled. "Hurry!"

She jumped upwards to push open the door. The lantern. The bottle of evil. She scrambled back down and swept her hands over the dirt and rock floor. There! The piece of steel, the brass lantern and the flint.

She struck two sparks before the wick caught and a flame sprang to life. To her eyes, it was pure gold. Molten gold that flooded the whole cellar.

"Can you hear me, child? Hurry!" he urged.

The table hit the trap door above her, rattling it in its wooden frame. She had to get out of there. She had to go now.

Her keys lay under the bottom shelf and she shoved them in her pocket. Lifting the lantern high, she climbed the ladder one handed.

At the top shelf, she reached for the bottle. The darkness in the cellar was crowding around it—thick and tangible. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dust and leather.