The Journal of Curious Letters

by James Dashner

  All he could do was watch the snow pile up in his front yard all through January and February. The weathermen loved reminding their viewers that it had been the worst winter on record, revealing snow tallies in fancy charts with as much enthusiasm as if they were announcing the lottery winners. It was March before the snow finally started to melt, revealing patches of deadened grass that desperately longed for spring.

  Tick hadn’t missed a single day of school during the three months, trying his best to keep focused while he worried about not hearing from Master George. But even competing in the Jackson County Chess Tournament in the middle of March hadn’t been the same and Tick had placed fifth in his age bracket. His family seemed shocked that he’d lost the top spot, but his mind had been somewhere else, and the three-year winning streak ended with a dull thump instead of a big bang.

  His dad constantly tried to cheer him up, encouraging him that something would come soon, but after a couple of months, even his dad seemed disheartened. Like a wounded snail limping to its next meal, Tick lived out each day hoping for a letter from Master George.

  Tick did receive one exciting thing in the mail: a package of free spaghetti and sauce from Frupey the Butler. True to Sofia’s word, it had tasted wonderful, and Tick knew he could never eat the cheap stuff again.

  But even in the depths of the three-month doldrums, Tick and Sofia had never given up. They made a commitment to study their own journals every day, even if only for a few minutes, to keep their minds fresh, hoping something new might pop out and surprise them. They forced themselves to stay active in the game, even if the other side offered no help. And every day, no matter what, they sent an e-mail to each other.

  Tick felt sure he’d hit rock bottom when he got home and checked his e-mail, clicking on a new one from Sofia.

  Tick,

  Hello from Italy.

  Ciao.

  Sofia

  Tick groaned and wrote his own quick reply:

  Sofia,

  Howdy from America.

  Later.

  Tick

  Depressed, Tick shut off the computer and slumped his way up the stairs to wait for dinner. A few minutes later, he fell asleep with the Journal of Curious Letters clasped in his arms like a teddy bear.

  =

  April sixth was a Saturday, and the sun seemed to melt away any remnants of clouds, beating down with a warmth that hadn’t been felt in months. Tick made his usual trek to check the mail, basking in the golden light, his spirits lifted despite the circumstances. The sounds of trickling water came from everywhere as the massive amounts of snow increased their melting pace, disappearing by inches a day now. It wouldn’t be long before hundreds of tulips stood like fancy-hat-wearing soldiers all over the yard, the result of painstaking pre-winter planting by his mom over the years.

  Even Tick, not exactly a flower expert, enjoyed his mom’s ridiculous amount of tulips every spring.

  As he made his way down the steaming sidewalk, Tick took a deep breath, loving the strong smells of the forest that returned with the melting snow. The scents of moist dirt and bark and rotting leaves that had lain beneath the white stuff all winter filled his nostrils, and he felt better than he had in months. Spring tended to do that to people.

  His good mood was short-lived, though. When he saw that the mailman hadn’t brought anything from Master George, he slipped right back into poor-little-Tick mode and went back inside the house.

  ~

  Later that afternoon, Tick sat at the desk in his bedroom, working on the math homework he’d been too depressed to finish the day before. He’d opened up his window, grateful that he was able to do so without freezing to death; the winter had seemed to last for ten years. He was just finishing up his last problem when he heard the phone ring, followed by the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs and down the hall toward his room.

  “Tick, it’s your girlfriend.”

  He turned to see his sister Lisa at the door, holding out the phone.

  “What?”

  “Phone’s for you. It’s a girl.”

  Tick’s first thought was that it must be Sofia—who else would call him? He jumped up from his desk and walked over to grab the phone. At the last second, Lisa put it behind her back, smirking at Tick.

  “Wow, you seem awfully excited,” she said, eyebrows raised. “Are we having a little love affair that we haven’t shared with Sis?”

  “Give it—it’s probably my, uh, science project partner.”

  Lisa chuckled. “You’re gullible, kid—it’s actually a man.” She handed him the phone and left.

  Tick closed the door and sat on his bed, putting the receiver to his ear. “Hello?”

  At first, all he could hear was static and the sounds of . . . beeping . . . or some kind of machinery in the background. Then came a loud clonk, followed by a soft boink and then a rolling series of metal clicks, like someone cranking up a thick chain into a holding wheel. Finally, surprising him, he heard the distinct meow of a cat.

  “Hello?” he repeated. “Anybody there?”

  From the other end came a rattling sound as the person picked the phone back up. A voice spoke through the scratchy static, a man with the one accent Tick could identify—British. “Is this . . . let me see . . . ah, yes, is this Mister Atticus Higginbottom?”

  “Yes . . . this is Atticus.”

  “Uh, dear sir, you were supposed to be walking about today. I mean, er—it’s a nice day to go for a walk, don’t you think? Simply smashing, really, from what I hear.” The man coughed. Tick heard the cat meow again, followed by some muffled words as the stranger covered up his end with his hand. “In a minute, Muffintops. Patience, dear feline!”

  “Sir, do I know you?”

  “No, no, no, not yet, anyway. But we certainly have some common acquaintances, if you get my meaning. In fact, I’m on instruction from them, old chap.”

  “On . . . instruction?”

  “Yes, yes, quite right. They need you to go for a walk, good man. Asked me to call you.”

  “A walk? Where?”

  “The usual, I suppose. What’s a young master like yourself sitting inside all day for anyhow? Got a bit of the flu, do you?”

  “No, I was just . . .” But the stranger had a point. Tick should be outside on the first beautiful day of the year so far.

  “Well, off you go. Not a moment to waste.”

  “But . . . where am I supposed to go? Who—”

  “Cheers, old boy. Only a month to go—I mean, er, a month or two, yes, that’s right.”

  “Wait,” Tick urged.

  The phone clicked and went silent.

  Chapter

  28

  ~

  A Meeting in the Woods

  Tick told his mom he had to go to the library, then headed out the door. Though he didn’t need a jacket, he’d instinctively put on his scarf, which began to scratch and make him too warm before he’d made it past the driveway.

  Stupid scarf. He loosened it, but he couldn’t bring himself to take it off.

  The cloudless sky was like a deep blue blanket draped across the world, not a blemish in sight. As much as Tick loved the winter and snow, even he had to admit it was about time for some warm weather.

  As he left his neighborhood and started down the road that led through the woods to town, Tick thought about the phone call he’d received. Every instinct in his mind told him it had to be Master George—in fact, he realized he’d heard the voice once before. On the tape of the third clue.

  Wow, he thought. I just spoke with Master George.

  Master George!

  Tick felt a shiver of excitement and a sudden bounce lifted his steps. After three grueling months, things seemed to be rolling again. He just hoped he had chosen the right direction to take a walk, though he couldn’t think of another way that could possibly be classified as “the usual.”

  He was almost to the spot where he’d seen the wooden sign with Rutger’s silly poem scra
wled across it when he felt something hit him in the right shoulder. A rock rattled across the pavement, and Tick looked into the woods across the street. The last time someone had thrown a rock at him—

  Another one flew out of the trees, missing him badly.

  “Rutger, is that you?” Tick said, cupping his hands around his mouth to amplify his voice.

  No reply came, but a few seconds later another rock shot out, this time smacking him in the forehead. “Ow!” he yelled. “Do you really have to do that?”

  “Yes!” a male voice said from within the thick trees.

  Grinning, Tick crossed the street and stepped into the forest.

  ~

  It didn’t take long to find them. Rutger, his stomach sucked in as far as it would go—which wasn’t much—hid behind a tall, thin tree with no branches, his body jutting out on both sides. Mothball, on the other hand, was trying her best to squat behind a short, leafy bush, her head poking at least two feet above its top, her eyes closed as if that would somehow make her invisible.

  It was one of the most ridiculous things Tick had ever seen.

  “Uh, you guys really stink at hide-and-seek,” he said. Both of them stepped out from their hiding places, faking disgust.

  They looked the same as the first time he’d met them. Rutger, incredibly short and round as a bowling ball, still wore his black clothes and the shoes and mittens Tick had given him months ago, though it seemed too warm for the outfit. Mothball had different clothes on, but they were still gray and hung on her eight-foot-tall frame like flags with no wind. The forest floor was mushy and wet and water dripped on them from the branches above.

  “’Ello, little sir,” the giant woman said, a huge smile crossing her wide face.

  “Looks like you’re a lot smarter than we thought,” the tiny Rutger added—well, tiny in terms of height. If anything, he looked even fatter than the last time Tick had seen him. “But . . . I don’t suppose you brought any food?”

  “Man, am I glad to see you guys again,” Tick said, ignoring Rutger’s plea for something to eat. “What took you so long?”

  “’Tis all part of the plan, it is,” Mothball said in her thick accent, folding her huge arms together. “Master George—he’s a smart old chap—reckoned he’d take a long wait and see who stuck it out. You know, weed out the ninnies with no patience.”

  “Last time you guys wouldn’t tell me M.G.’s name,” Tick said.

  Rutger reached out and lightly slapped Tick on the leg. “Well, you figured it out yourself, now didn’t you? Wouldn’t it seem silly for us to not say his name when you already know what it is? Good job, old boy, good job!”

  Tick knew he probably had little time available to him and wished he’d sat down to organize all of his questions before going out. He had a million things he wanted to ask, but his mind felt like soup in a blender. “So . . . how many kids like me are left? How many are still getting the clues?”

  Rutger stared up at the sky as he slowly counted on his fingers. When he got to ten, he quit and looked at Tick. “Can’t tell you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Mothball shifted her large body and leaned back against a tree. “Master George sends his regrets on the bit of trouble you had in the northern parts. Never meant that to happen, he didn’t.”

  Tick squinted his eyes in confusion. “Wait a minute, what do you mean by that?” He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something about her statement struck him as odd.

  Rutger cleared his throat, trying to take the attention away from Mothball, whose face suddenly revealed she’d said something she wasn’t supposed to.

  “All my good friend means,” Rutger said, “is that we never expected our, uh, enemy to catch up with you so quickly. Don’t worry, though, we’ve, uh, taken care of the problem for now.” He rolled his eyes and turned around, whistling.

  “Didn’t help matters much there, now did ya, my short friend?” Mothball muttered.

  A swarm of confusion buzzed inside Tick’s head, and he felt like the answer was somewhere right in the middle if he could just get to it. “But . . . what about the Gnat Rat thing, and the Tingle Wraith? You make it sound like—”

  “Come on, now,” Mothball said, straightening back to her full height. “Time’s a-wasting, little sir. Got a lot to talk about, we do.”

  “But—”

  “Mister Higginbottom!” Rutger interjected, spinning his wide body around to look at Tick once again. “I immediately demand you cease these questions, uh, immediately!”

  Mothball snorted. “You just said immediately two times in the same sentence, you lug. Methinks he gets the point without you blowin’ a lung and all.”

  Rutger fidgeted back and forth on his short legs, as if he’d only spouted off to save themselves from getting deeper into trouble. “Just trying to . . . teach the young master some patience and, uh, other . . . things like patience.”

  “You two are without a doubt the strangest people I’ve ever met,” Tick said.

  “Try living with a million Rutgers in one city,” Mothball said. “That’ll give you weak knees.” She paused, then laughed. “Quite literally, actually, if the little folks are in the punching mood.”

  “Very funny, Flagpole,” Rutger said.

  “Thanks much, Bread Dough,” she countered.

  Tick thought it was fun watching the two friends argue, but he was hoping for answers. “Did you guys get me out here for a reason or what? And what’s up with the phone call from Master George?”

  “Been sittin’ here all ruddy day, we ’ave,” Mothball said. “’Ad to spur you a bit, burn your bottoms to get a move on.”

  “Couldn’t you have just knocked on my door?”

  “What, and get the detectives called in? Spend the rest of me life in a Reality Prime zoo?”

  Tick held up a hand. “Whoa, time out—what does that mean?”

  “What?” Mothball asked, looking at her fingernails as though considering a manicure.

  “What’s ‘Reality Prime’?” His mind spun, the word reality jarring something in his brain.

  Mothball looked over at Rutger, shrugging her bony shoulders. “Methinks the little sir’s gotten hit over the head, he has. Did you ’ear me say that?”

  “Say what?” Rutger asked, his face a mask of exaggerated innocence.

  “I’ve already forgotten.”

  Tick groaned as loud as he could. “I’m not an idiot, guys.”

  Rutger reached up and grabbed Tick by the arm. “We know, kid, we know. So quit acting like one. We’ll tell you what you need to know when you’re ready, not a second before.”

  “So what, I can’t ask questions?”

  “Bet yer best buttons you can—ask away,” Mothball said. “Just don’t complain like a Rutger when we say mum’s the word.”

  “Now wait just one minute . . .” Rutger said, letting go of Tick and pointing a finger at Mothball.

  “I get it, I get it,” Tick said before Rutger could continue. He thought about the list of words in his journal he’d heard from these two, framing questions inside his mind. “Okay, what’s a kyoopy? Can you answer that?”

  Mothball and Rutger exchanged a long look, signifying to Tick that this was no longer a black-and-white issue—which would be to his advantage. “Come on,” he urged. “As long as you don’t tell me how to figure out the clues, what does it matter if I know a little bit about what’s behind all this?”

  “Fair enough, methinks,” Mothball said. “Master George does seem a bit more willing to let on. I mean, he called you on the telly, didn’t he?” She gestured toward Rutger. “Go on, little man, tell him ’bout the kyoopy.”

  Rutger scowled. “Do I look like Hans Schtiggenschlubberheimer to you?”

  “Hans who?” Mothball and Tick asked in unison.

  Rutger looked like someone had just asked him what gravity was. “Excuse me? Hans Schtiggenschlubberheimer? The man who started the Scientific Revolution in the Fourth Reality? If it were
n’t for him, Reginald Chu would never have—” He stopped, looking uncertainly at Tick. “This is impossible, not knowing what we can and can’t say in front of you. Blast it all, I can’t wait until the special day gets here.”

  Of course, right then Tick thought of his teacher, Mr. Chu, just as he had when he saw “Chu Industries” on the Gnat Rat. But just like before, he didn’t think it could have anything to do with his science instructor—it had to be a coincidence. “Who is Reginald Chu?” he asked. “And what kind of awful name is Reginald?”

  “It’s not a very fortunate name,” Rutger agreed. “Downright stinky if you ask me. Fits the man, though, considering what he’s done. Started out with good intentions, I’m sure, but he and his company have done awful, awful things.”

  “Well, what’s he done? And what is the Fourth Reality? What are any of the realities? Are there other versions of the universe or something?”

  Mothball sighed. “This is balderdash, really.” She leaned over and put a hand on Tick’s shoulder. “Rutger’s spot on, he is. We just don’t know what to talk about with you. Methinks Master George will explain everything—if you make it that far.”

  “Listen to me,” Rutger said. “Focus your mind on the clues for now. Don’t worry about all this other stuff. You can do it, and it will all be worth it—when the day comes. You’ll be taken to a very important place.”

  Tick felt incredibly frustrated. “Fine, but at least . . . Can you just answer one question? Just one.”

  Rutger nodded.

  “Can you tell me, in one sentence each, the definition of a kyoopy and the definition of a . . . a reality. No details, and I won’t ask any more questions about it.”

  Rutger looked up at Mothball, who shrugged her shoulders. “Blimey, just do it. The poor lad’s mind might explode if we don’t.”

  “All right.” Rutger took a deep breath. “Kyoopy is a nickname for the theory of science that explains the background of everything we’re about.” He paused. “And a Reality is a place, uh, or a version of a place, if you will, that comes about because of the kyoopy.” He looked up at Mothball. “Wow, that was good.”