Leven Thumps and the Gateway to Foo by Obert Skye
“Of course,” Sabine hissed.
“Listen . . .” Ezra weakly begged.
Dennis wasn’t in the mood to listen. He stuffed Ezra’s broken body into the fanny pack, Ezra moaning the whole time. Then, straightening his wrinkle-proof pants and wearing Sabine as a tattered, open cloak, Dennis stood tall and puffed out his chest. He smoothed the sticker the bank teller had placed on his chest, viciously zipped up his fanny pack, and stomped farther into the woods, leaving behind the scene of the accident and the person he once was.
Dennis felt invincible.
ii
Tim Tuttle was slightly nervous about flying. Normally, he wouldn’t have given it a second thought, but the strange story he had just heard about a plane landing upside down on a freeway was making him a bit uneasy.
Uneasy but determined.
People were also talking about the twenty-four-story office building in North Carolina that had simply gotten up from the corner it was on and “walked” to the opposite side of the street. A plane landing upside down, a building changing location: nobody had a logical explanation for either event. Some thought it was the result of earthquakes and tornadoes, but the problem with that theory was that there was no other indication that any earthquake or tornado had actually occurred. One television network reported that these incidents were illusions staged by a clever magician who was trying to make a name for himself. They retracted their story a couple of hours later.
The world seemed like a crazy place. What made Tim most uneasy was that in the very back of his mind he couldn’t help but think that all these things were somehow connected to what Winter was going through.
Before his flight, Tim had spent the day at the library, researching newspaper stories from around the world. If it was true, and Winter did have some way of freezing things or hypnotizing people, there certainly had to be an article documenting something odd going on somewhere. And Tim figured that if that odd thing had something to do with ice, then he might be back on the trail.
Unfortunately, the newspapers were full of odd people and odd events. But nothing he had found had any obvious connection to Winter or Leven or ice.
There was one brief article, buried in a London newspaper, describing a bizarre incident that had taken place in a Munich, Germany, train station a few days previous. According to the report, something had turned the station into a chaotic mess, with travelers being hurled around or lifted up by unidentified assailants. Blame was tentatively placed on a malfunctioning new heating system at the station, but nobody who had been there bought into that at all.
There were quotes from passengers who had lived through the ordeal. Tim would have thought it was simply another odd story, except for the last quote from a Frau Dent. She had said: “A young boy and girl started clapping, and for some reason that seemed to help settle things down.”
There was no mention of ice, but the young boy and girl stood out. Tim had printed the article and stared at it for hours, thinking. When he called his wife, Wendy, to tell her what he had found, she encouraged him to do what he thought best.
“I’ve always wanted to go to Germany,” Tim said, “and my passport’s current from that convention of the International Waste and Litter Society last year in Nottingham.”
“Then go find her,” Wendy urged.
So, Tim was now on a plane crossing the Atlantic Ocean, wondering what in the world he would find when he landed in Germany. Winter had meant a lot to his family, but this quest was more than that. For the very first time he was truly beginning to understand just how important Winter was. The secret the old lady had whispered to him was finally beginning to make sense—sort of.
“She holds the seventh key, but does not know it. Watch her carefully.”
Tim turned off his overhead light and pulled his ball cap down over his eyes. He needed sleep, and he had a feeling this might be his last chance to get some for a while.
“Seventh key,” he whispered as he drifted off, wondering how he could watch Winter when he still had no idea where she was.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Signs o’ the Time
By the time Leven and Clover and Janet reached the other side of Fissure Gorge, Janet had stopped crying, Leven’s stomach hurt worse than ever, and Clover had tried more times than you can count to convince Leven to let him take care of the key. On the Niteon side there was a giant stone wall running along the entire length of the gorge, protecting Niteon from who knows what. Leven stepped off the bridge, through an opening in the wall, and onto solid ground.
“You’re a beauty. I’ll tell the world about you!” Leven yelled back to the bridge as he walked away.
The sentry bird on the Niteon side was less kind, ordering Leven to move on and stop talking to the bridge.
“They can sense insincerity,” the big bird chirped, thinking Leven was being sarcastic.
Leven moved away from the gorge and into Niteon. He could see nothing but a moonlit landscape. There were small hills and beautiful trees dotting and accentuating everything he could see. A broad stone path, with stone arches randomly stretching over it, ran far enough into the distance that Leven couldn’t see the end of it. The only structure in sight was the giant bird’s guardhouse.
“So, why do birds guard the bridge?” Leven asked Clover as they passed beneath two stone arches and onto the path leading to Cork.
“What else would birds do?” Clover asked, confused.
Leven shrugged. It didn’t feel right to go farther without Geth. In Leven’s mind there was no way Geth could have gotten in front of them, and it made sense to wait a bit for him.
He mentioned his concern to Clover.
“You’re forgetting that Geth could have traveled in a number of ways,” Clover said. “He could have found a sarus and ridden on top of it the whole way. Or he could be traveling on the back of a roven, or maybe he hitched a ride with a Sympathetic Twill and has taken one of the other bridges. You watch. When we get to the turrets, he’ll be there.”
“You’re right,” Leven said, knowing he needed to just focus on their goal of reaching the turrets and let fate do the rest.
Leven motioned for Janet to follow him and began walking quickly toward the turrets. In the distance there was a thick, lumpy patch of black horizon, darker than the night.
“What’s that darkness over there?” Leven asked, pointing toward a gigantic, cystlike growth in the sky. Even in the darkness of the night it stood out, looking like a mushy black hole. It was in the opposite direction of the fire shooting up from the turrets. The blackness looked too substantive to actually be hovering in the air.
“It’s not good,” Clover said.
“Then what is it?”
“Bad,” Clover suggested, sounding as though he wasn’t all that impressed with Leven’s level of knowledge.
“I understand opposites,” Leven said, frustrated.
“We used to have the most spectacular sunrises,” Clover said, leading into an explanation. “It’s been many years, but we in Foo used to wake to find the marvelous dreams of mankind painting our world brilliant colors. Like a kaleidoscope. Sure, there were always spots and lines of black, and mornings of great darkness, but mankind was ultimately moving forward and dreamed of being better. There were some who were selfish, but now . . .
“That blackness is the result of sick dreams. The Children of the Sewn can’t frame the dark dreams fast enough. And the museum expansion where they hang and store the dreams has been caught up in bureaucratic red tape for years. But, if they can frame a rotten dream, then it is less likely to spread and grow. Whereas the good dreams, when properly framed, are much easier to focus in on and achieve—their frames expand. But as I was saying, the Children of the Sewn are behind in both areas.”
“Children of the Sewn?” Leven asked.
“They have the gift of framing the dreams of mankind.”
“You can’t frame dreams,” Janet spoke up, making it obvious that she
Clover made himself visible. “Excuse me?” he asked.
“I saw it on a TV special,” Janet said with less enthusiasm. “It’s just your brain trying to organize the junk you see during the day. I’m pretty sure that’s what’s happening to me now.”
Clover shook his head.
“This can’t be real,” Janet said. “I can’t even touch you.”
“It wouldn’t be appropriate anyhow,” Clover pointed out.
“I can’t eat. I can’t even sit,” Janet complained. “And I can feel I’m somewhere else. Somewhere, someone just needs to wake me up.”
“Sorry,” Clover said unsympathetically. “You are very much awake, both here and in Reality. The sooner you understand that, the better off you’ll be.”
Janet looked at Leven as if he might have something to add.
Leven shrugged. “I don’t know much more than you,” he said. “But I do know that despite things looking different here, I can feel it’s real.”
Janet didn’t argue, but she did begin crying again.
“Women,” Clover said, disappearing.
Leven and Clover and Janet picked up their pace, running along a narrower, worn stone path that bordered the brink of the gorge. Every few hundred feet the path in front of them would suddenly lift up, move to the right or to the left, and then drop down again, creating a new trail in a new direction. The fourth time the path did that, Leven began to question if they were going the right way.
“We are,” Clover insisted. “Just stay on the path.”
“But it keeps changing,” Leven said, his breathing labored.
“It’ll make up its mind eventually,” Clover said. “No path wants to just lie there. It’s trying to provide you the best journey.”
“That’s nice and all, but we need to get there.”
“We will.”
“Isn’t there a normal path?”
Leven was going to argue the point further, but the path in front of them had heard Leven and was insulted by his ingratitude. It no longer wanted to go to the trouble of providing an interesting journey. So the path picked itself up, rose fifty feet into the air, and then slammed down, making a straight line through some trees and right to the turrets.
“Happy?” Clover asked.
“Thrilled,” Leven answered, running even faster down the trail and toward the flame.
Leven’s concern for Geth kept him going. But he was tiring. Gradually, his running turned to jogging and the jogging turned to walking and the walking led him eventually right up the front steps of a house that sat at the entrance to the turrets. The house was four stories tall with an ivy-covered porch that wrapped all the way around the ground floor. The roof was made of wood shingles that looked dry enough to spontaneously combust. There was a wide front door that was painted blue and had a fat wooden doorknob on it. On the wall next to the door was a sign that said:
Hours: 8–8
In back of the house, a tall wooden fence ran for miles in either direction. Leven could see the high, distant flames of the turrets. They were still many miles off, beyond the fence.
“What is this place?” Leven asked, wiping sweat from his forehead and pointing to the old home.
“The gatehouse entrance to the turrets,” Clover replied.
“Entrance?”
Clover read the sign. “Gates open at eight.”
“We can’t wait for the gates to open!” Leven insisted. “Geth needs our help!”
Leven stepped onto the porch with Clover and tried the handle of the front door. It was locked. He looked back at Janet, who was still standing on the path. Leven moved to a large window under the porch and pressed his face to the glass. Inside he could see shelf after shelf, each lined with books. A couple of the books slid off their shelves and began to approach the window. Two opened and pressed themselves up against the glass, showing off their pages. Leven jumped back.
“Books are so vain,” Clover said. “Always wanting everyone to know their story. If they think for a second that you don’t know what is inside of them, they’ll strut around showing off their stuff forever.”
Another book slammed up against the glass, trying to get Leven to look at it. It was opened up to a page with a painting of a boat on the Lime Sea.
Leven moved away from the window and back over to the door. He knocked and listened for any response. Something inside banged and rattled. A few seconds later the doorknob turned, and the door opened.
Leven recognized the man instantly. It was Albert, the same gentleman he had helped rescue from the forest. Albert gave no indication that he recognized Leven. Beyond Albert, inside the house, Leven could see a fat sycophant resting in a chair with its feet dangling in a bucket.
“Gates open at nine,” Albert instructed.
“The sign says eight,” Clover said.
“Well, what do signs know? Gates open at nine.”
A couple of books had moved out of the library and were now trying to get out the front door to present themselves to Leven. Albert kicked them back with his foot.
“We have to get to the turrets,” Leven begged. “We need to meet someone.”
“Well, meet them in front of here,” Albert insisted. “There is no one inside, and no one will be allowed inside until the gates open at ten.”
“You said nine,” Leven pointed out.
“That doesn’t sound like something I would say,” Albert claimed, kicking another book. “Gates open at ten.”
Albert slammed the door.
Leven walked to the edge of the ivy-covered porch and looked around the house at the tall fence behind it, then stepped off the porch and walked toward it. He reached out to stick his hand through the slats, but as he reached, the fence shifted to block him. Leven scooted over and tried to reach again. Again the fence moved to keep him from even reaching through.
“Do you think we can climb over it?” Leven asked Clover.
“No way,” Clover said. “This fence would swat you down every time you tried. We’ll have to wait here.”
Leven was going to argue the point a bit more, but he spotted a thick patch of soft-looking green grass growing beneath some tall trees.
“I don’t know about both of you,” Leven said, “but if we have to wait, I could really use some sleep and maybe some food. My stomach feels awful.”
Clover materialized and handed Leven a filler crisp. “Just nibble it. It’ll fill you right up.”
“Thanks,” Leven said.
“So what about me?” Clover asked.
“What about you?” Leven said, kneeling down on the soft turf.
“I’m not actually tired, and you know how much trouble I can get in with a couple of hours of unsupervised time. And in the dark, even.”
“Janet will watch you,” Leven mumbled, lying down on the soft green grass and closing his eyes. “Gates open at ten. Hopefully.”
Clover looked at Leven and tisked. He looked up at Janet, who had begun crying again.
“Wanna play a game or something?” he asked.
She just stood there.
“Come on,” Clover finally said, “follow me.”
Janet followed Clover into the trees.
ii
The moonlight rested upon the secret’s shoulders like a thick dusting of dandruff. A light wind caused the dandruff to swirl. The very tip of the secret’s feet still burned orange from the heat of the soil; the rest of it had cooled nicely and was practically invisible to the naked eye. It swatted a few pesky decoy secrets away from its head.
It breathed.
It then exhaled a torrent of soft whispers and low murmurings. The secret stepped lightly across the ground. It had braved crossing the bridge and was now moving down the same path Leven had traveled earlier.
It sought the soul who had dug it up.
It had not gotten a complete look at who had
The secret expanded and then contracted. It wanted so deeply to let go of what it was holding inside. Even in its state, it knew it held a secret that many would kill to hear.
It reached the turret’s gatehouse.
For some reason it was frightened of the sycophant and was relieved to see no sign of it. But there beneath the trees by the fence lay a tall boy sleeping.
The secret moved closer, making no more sound than a pair of bare feet walking in long grass.
The secret whispered, hoping the boy would stir and open his eyes slightly.
The boy moaned and rolled over, his closed eyes pressing into the grass.
The secret whispered louder.
It was no use; the boy was sound asleep.
The secret moved behind the trees. It would wait.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Throwing Fear
Winter could feel her hands beneath her chin and her knees pushed up against her chest as she sat curled up in a ball on the dirt floor. She opened her eyes, but couldn’t see much more than she had been able to with them closed. She straightened her back and moved into a kneeling position. The soil around her knees crunched and crackled. Her head felt thick and littered with streaks of darkness that the bite of the rotting nihils had left behind. Winter was covered in leftover bits from the decaying birds—a claw here, a beak there, and two eyeballs caught in the hem of her shirt.
As her green eyes adjusted to the dark, Winter looked around the room she was in, taking in every inch. The room was huge, with white, tile-covered walls and a domed ceiling. At the center of the dome was a small opening that created a skylight of sorts. A circle of moonlight was dripping in, and Winter could hear the sound of wind building.
Jamoon stood at the edge of the moonlight near a table filled with steaming food. Winter had forgotten how hungry she was. In the corner of the room was Jamoon’s roven. The roven rocked sideways, clicking its lips. Jamoon ripped off a big piece of meat from a platter on the table and threw it to the roven.