The Carpet People

‘That’s what comes of listening to stories on an empty head. Stupid idea, anyway, wedging yourself under the door like that. . .’
    Glurk turned his head with difficulty.
    ‘What?’ he said.
    ‘Boneheaded, I call it,’ said Pismire. The ceiling at the end of the hall collapsed.
    ‘Why, you daft . . . old . . .’ Glurk began. He rose on one knee, then on both, then slowly raised the beam above his head. Then he stepped forward and waved a finger under Pismire’s nose.
    ‘I saved a lot—’ he began. Then he toppled over.
    ‘Right, it worked. Grab him,’ said Pismire. ‘That wall’s falling in.’
    They took an arm each, and stumbled out of the way as the lintel thudded into the floor, splitting it. Pismire squinted at the roof.
    ‘Quickly!’
    Brocando was standing by the door to the stairway.
    ‘Come on!’
    Glurk started to cough. Pismire pushed a rag into his hand.
    ‘Put it over your mouth and nose,’ he said. ‘Damp cloth. Helps with the smoke. Important safety information.’
    ‘Tastes of wine,’ said Glurk thickly, as they half-pushed, half-carried him through the doorway.
    ‘Only thing there was,’ said Pismire. ‘Now . . . down!’
    The whole roof fell in.
    They ran down the steps, the others carrying Glurk between them like a battering ram. The roaring died away and all that could be heard was the thudding of their feet on the stone.
    ‘Not out of the hairs yet!’ panted Brocando.
    ‘What . . . mean?’ puffed Pismire.
    ‘No torches!’
    Pismire only had enough breath left to grunt.
    ‘!’
    They piled into the little door at the bottom of the steps, and lay panting in the blackness.
    ‘Well, there’s no going back up,’ came Brocando’s voice. ‘The door’s under a mound of rubble now.’
    ‘Do you think you can find the way to the statue in the dark?’ said Bane.
    ‘That was the first time I’ve ever been down here!’ wailed Brocando.
    ‘But there must be other entrances,’ said Pismire.
    He thought of the deep crevasses and windy caves of Underlay, and the stories of the creatures that dwelt there. Of course, he didn’t believe in them. He’d told them, because the handing on of an oral mythology was very important to a developing culture, but he didn’t believe in supernatural monsters. He shivered. He hoped they didn’t believe in him.
    In the darkness he heard the creak of the door.
    ‘If we keep together and test every step, we should be safe,’ came Brocando’s unsteady voice. ‘There’s four of us. What would dare attack us?’
    ‘Lots of things.’
    ‘Apart from them. ‘
    Glurk got heavier and heavier as the hours passed. They edged him along narrow paths in the dark, and dragged him through what felt, to judge by the change in the air, to be large caves. They carried him head first and feet first, sometimes propping him up against a hair root while they inched hand in hand along strange paths. They scrambled among thick roots and crept around holes so deep that a warm wind rushed up from them.
    Eventually they sat down for a rest. They were walking endlessly. It wasn’t as if they were getting anywhere.
    ‘What’s below Underlay?’ said Brocando.
    ‘The Floor,’ said Pismire’s voice, out of darkness.
    ‘What’s below that?’
    ‘Nothing. Something has to be below everything else. That’s the Floor. That’s as far as there is. You might as well ask what’s above the Carpet.’
    ‘Well, what is above the—’
    ‘How should I know? We’ve got far too many problems down here right now to worry about what’s up there.’
    ‘The Carpet can’t go on forever, though.’
    ‘It goes on far enough for me!’ said Pismire testily. Brocando felt the air move in front of his face. It was strange, talking to people when everything was completely black. For all he knew, they could be sitting right on the edge of another hole. Everything had to be done by feel.
    ‘Pismire?’ he said.
    ‘What now?’
    ‘What about mouls? Do they come down here?’
    ‘It’s your tunnel. You should know. I can’t imagine why they’d want to, though. I shouldn’t think they’d like it any more than we do.’
    ‘Correct.’
    There was silence.
    ‘Was that you?’
    ‘I thought it was you.’
    ‘Brocando?’
    ‘Pismire?’
    ‘Bane?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘You see,’ said Gormaleesh’s voice by Pismire’s ear, ‘we can see in the dark.’
    They didn’t fight. How could you, when you might as easily hit a friend as an enemy?
    It was the