“You mean, they’re not … babies?” Mucum said, hauling himself back onto his feet, his brain taking a while to catch up.

“Baybees? Is this how yow lot up top grow up? Oi always wondered what them scaffields were for!” Both Joe and Ark were sharing the joke now, their giggles echoing down the passage.

“Oh, ha-ha! Very funny! How was I to know?” He tore off one of the fruits and stuck it in his mouth to show them he wasn’t afraid. It was sweet and earthy, like honey. “Not bad, I suppose.”

“Not bad?” Joe was shocked. “This be treasure, moi boys, and wait ’til yow taste the brew it makes!”

The moment they reached the diving station and pulled off their helmets, Joe’s whistle cut across the cavern. The sound was like a candle drawing moths. Within seconds, it seemed that all the Rootshooter kin within the huge trunk were gathered, pressing in an expectant circle around the trio.

Joe waited patiently, his hands on Ark’s shoulders. “Yow not going to believe this!” he declared to all his colleagues. “This boy” — and he nodded his head downward — “made best mateys with a … wait for it … mealworm!”

The whole crowd gave an “Oooh!” in delight as Joe proceeded to fill them in. When his yarn-spinning reached the moment that Ark had joined with the great worm, every single Rootshooter closed their eyes and they all swayed gently like a copse of skinny saplings in a breeze. The short silence didn’t last as Joe carried on painting Ark as the man of the hour.

Ark stood at the center of it all, lit up by all the gazing eyes. He was suddenly tired. Had he really done anything? Maybe it was just sympathy. A sense of what others, including creatures, go through. The enthusiasm of the Rootshooters was overwhelming.

Standing to one side, Mucum felt like a spare wrench hanging on a belt. This wasn’t helped by Flo’s constant fluttering glances. He remembered Ark’s words and looked away nervously.

After swallowing at least a gallon of hot soup, Ark felt exhaustion seep into his limbs. His legs threatened to give way and Joe quickly motioned two of the Rootshooters to carry him back to his room. He was laid down on a moss bed and covered with blankets, where he drifted off. Had he really listened to that dark creature? For a second, he’d felt there had been another down in that tunnel. Not Mucum or Joe. Someone, or something, else.