The Journal of Curious Letters

by James Dashner

  After everything, after all that work and sweat and danger, it was all over.

  Tick was in the forest now, still running, dodging trees and brush, tripping and getting back up again, ignoring the scratches. He sucked at the air around him, forcing it into his lungs so his heart wouldn’t give up and die.

  But then it finally became too much. He stopped, doubling over to take in huge, gulping breaths. Sunset had arrived and the woods had grown very dark, the trees standing as monuments of shadow all around him. When he finally caught his breath, he straightened and folded his arms around the Journal of Curious Letters.

  There had to be a way to fix this. There had to be.

  Tick knew that Master George somehow tracked what all of his subjects were doing. Tick didn’t know what kind of magic or futuristic device accomplished the task, but he knew his actions had been monitored. How else did Mothball and Rutger always know where and how to find him? Even in Alaska! Based on what Paul had said, they went there to give him a clue, not the other way around.

  Surely Master George cared more about Tick’s intent than the mistake of Kayla burning the letter. And Tick’s intent was stronger than anything he had felt in his entire life. He wanted to see this through. He wanted to reach the end of the mystery.

  He wanted it very, very badly.

  Not sure if he’d finally flipped his lid once and for all, Tick screamed at the top of his lungs, belting out several words as loudly as his body could handle.

  “MASTER GEORGE, I DIDN’T BURN THE LETTER!”

  It hurt his throat and made him cough, but he shouted it a second time anyway.

  Drawing in a deep breath through his torn throat, Tick concentrated. He had to do something. He had made his choice long ago to not burn the letter. That choice still had to mean something, didn’t it? If only he had chosen to take his journal with him to the library instead of leaving it where Kayla could find it.

  He felt a funny tickle growing in the pit of his stomach, a reserve of energy he hadn’t known was there. A wave of warmth spread up from his stomach into his chest. The air in the woods stilled around him, as if the whole world hushed, waiting for him to make his move.

  Tick gritted his teeth. He tapped into that quiet pool of energy, channeling the heat that filled his body and forcing it through his shredded voice box, yelling out for the third time:

  “MASTER GEORGE! I . . . DID . . . NOT . . . BURN . . . THE . . . LETTER!”

  The woods swallowed up his words, returning only silence. The fire in his belly flickered and then went out, leaving Tick feeling weak and shaky.

  He waited, hoping he would see some kind of sign that Master George had heard him. Nothing.

  Dejected, throat burning, and not knowing what else he could possibly do, not knowing if what he had done had changed anything at all, he headed for home.

  ~

  Kayla sat in the middle of the living room, hosting a tea party for her three favorite dolls. Humming to herself, she passed out cups of steaming hot tea.

  The front door swung open, followed by her very sad-looking brother. His clothes looked dirty, his hair was all messed up, and he was sweating.

  What happened to him? she wondered. He was supposed to be at the library.

  He came into the living room and knelt down beside her, pulling her into a fiercely tight hug. Kayla thought Tick was acting really weird but she finally squeezed back, wondering if he was okay.

  “I’m sorry, Kayla,” he said. “I’m really, really sorry I yelled at you like that.” He leaned back from her; his eyes were all wet. “You’re a good girl, you know that? Come here.” He hugged her again, then stood up and headed for the stairs, his head hung low, that strange-looking book with his name on the cover gripped in his right hand.

  Halfway up the stairs, he leaned over the railing and repeated himself. “You’re a good girl, Kayla. I’m sorry I yelled at you, okay? I know you didn’t mean to mess up my book.”

  Kayla was confused. When had Tick yelled at her? Earlier, he’d been talking to his friends on the computer while she played with her dolls but he hadn’t said anything to her. And she hadn’t touched his book at all. How could she? He had taken it with him when he left for the library.

  She and her dollies laughed at the silliness of boys and she poured herself another cup of invisible tea.

  ~

  Tick flopped down on his bed with a groan. How could he know if screaming in the woods had done any good? Was he really going to have to agonize all weekend, waiting, then head to the cemetery on Monday night and hope for the best? Was it really all over?

  With a heavy heart he opened up his Journal of Curious Letters to torture himself by studying the spot where Master George’s first letter had once been glued, safe and sound. When the front cover flipped over and fell in his lap, Tick looked at something he couldn’t understand. He stared for a very long time at the page before him, his mind shifting into overdrive trying to comprehend the message his eyes were frantically sending down the nerve wires to his brain. A message that was impossible.

  The first letter was there, glued to the page like it had always been, not a burn mark or blemish to be found. It was there! How . . . ?

  Master George—or someone—had just pulled off the coolest magic trick Tick had ever seen.

  ~

  Kayla had just poured the last cup when she heard loud thumps from upstairs—was somebody jumping up there?—followed by happy screams of joy. It was Tick, and he sounded like he’d just received a personal letter from Santa Claus.

  What a weirdo, she thought, taking a sip of her tea.

  ~

  Far away, Master George sat upright in his ergonomic chair, staring at the flashing lights of his Command Center. He shook his head, feeling a bit dazed. He’d just been readying himself to . . . do something.

  He couldn’t remember what exactly.

  He’d been thinking about . . . Atticus Higginbottom.

  But why? It was as if a bubble in his brain had popped, taking the last few minutes of his life with it. It was downright maddening—he couldn’t remember anything. Why was he even sitting in the chair? He only sat here when someone had made a Pick—or if someone had burned their letter. He shook his head. Had someone burned their letter? Had Atticus burned his letter?

  He looked up at the computer screen, counting the purple check marks. No. Everyone was accounted for, the mark by Atticus’s name glowing bright and steady. That was good. The special day was coming up quickly and Master George couldn’t afford to lose a single member of the group. Especially not Atticus.

  I really must be getting old.

  Bewildered, he stood up, calling for Muffintops, and thinking how much he’d like a nice pot of peppermint tea.

  Chapter

  35

  ~

  The Final Preparation

  By Sunday night, Tick had heard back from Paul and Sofia about the strange incident with the burned letter and its miraculous reappearance. They were as shocked and clueless as he was about how or why it happened. Paul wasn’t shy about expressing his doubt that it had occurred at all. His theory was Tick had been so stressed out about the magic words that he’d experienced one whopper of a bizarre dream.

  But Tick knew it was real. He’d even asked Kayla about it and she didn’t remember anything about burning the letter. No, Tick knew something magical had happened. Something supernatural. Something miraculous. And he couldn’t wait to ask Master George what it might mean.

  He sat at the desk in his room, waiting for his dad. The lamp on the desk provided the only light, failing miserably to push back the gloom. They’d planned all weekend to meet at eight o’clock Sunday evening to discuss the Big Day, and to run through the clues one final time. Though they didn’t really know what they were planning for, it seemed they’d have only one shot at this. Or rather, Tick would have only one shot. The clues had been very clear—he must go alone, unless his dad wanted to drop dead of a heart attack
right before the special time.

  Tick had just pulled out the Journal of Curious Letters when he heard a soft knock at the door. “Come in,” he called out.

  His dad opened the door and shut it behind him. “Twenty-five hours to go, kiddo.”

  Tick groaned. “I know. I’ve been dying for this day to come and now that it’s here, I wish we had a week or two more. I’m scared to death.”

  “Well, at least you’re honest.” Dad came in and sat on the bed, ignoring the loud creak of the bedsprings, which sounded as if they were about to break. “Most kids would act all tough and say they weren’t scared at all.”

  “Then most kids would be faking it.”

  His dad clapped his hands together. “Well, we won’t have much time to talk tomorrow night before you go, so let’s run through everything.”

  Tick wasn’t ready for that yet. “Dad?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What if . . . whatever I do takes me somewhere? Something tells me it will. What if I’m gone a long time?”

  His dad’s face melted into a look of deep sadness, all droopy eyes and frowns. “Professor, trust me, I’ve been so worried about all this I can’t sleep at night. How could any good father let his son go off to who-knows-where to do who-knows-what and for who-knows how long? Especially after the dangerous things we’ve been through.” He paused, rubbing his hands together. “But what can I say—I’m nuts? It’s hard to believe in all this—but I believe in you. I’m taking a huge leap of faith, but I’m gonna let you walk out of this house and down that road”—he pointed out the window—“and off to wherever or whatever it is you’ve been called to do. It’s going to kill me, but I’m gonna do it. I’m either the best or the worst dad in history.”

  A long silence followed. Tick felt something stir within him, a new appreciation for his parents and what they went through worrying about their kids. It couldn’t be easy. And now Tick was going to do the worst thing possible to his dad—make him let him go without having a clue what might happen to his only son.

  “What about Mom?” Tick finally asked.

  His dad looked up from the spot he’d been staring at on the floor. “Now that could be a battle.”

  “What are you going to do? She’d never let me go.”

  His dad laughed. “That’s exactly why you’re going to go tomorrow night, and leave the explaining-to-Mom bit to me. Once you’re gone, I’ll sit her down and spill the beans, every little morsel, from beginning to end. Your mom and I have loved each other for many years, son, and eventually she’ll understand why you’re doing this, and why you and I feel so strongly about it.”

  Tick snorted. “Yeah, sometime after she tries to kill you for letting me go.”

  His dad nodded. “You’re probably right, there. Just try to not be gone too long and maybe I’ll survive.”

  Tick suddenly had a horrible thought. “What if . . . what if I never—”

  His dad held up a hand and shushed Tick loudly. “Stop. Stop, Atticus.”

  “But—”

  “No!” He shook his head vigorously. “You’re coming back to me, you hear? These people know what they’re doing, and you will come back to me. And there won’t be another word said about it, is that understood?”

  Tick couldn’t remember the last time his dad had looked so stern. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Now let’s run through those clues.”

  ~

  It took a half hour, but they read through each and every one of the Twelve Clues, studying their words one last time to make sure they hadn’t missed anything. But it all seemed to be there, straightforward and solved. Looking back, it had all been pretty easy in a way. The real test seemed to be the endurance and the bravery to keep going.

  And, of course, figuring out the magic words, which seemed to be the most important piece of the puzzle. No matter what else he’d done, without those words to say, he felt sure everything would fail.

  When they read the twelfth clue, they realized they’d perhaps missed something—a little phrase their mysterious friend had thrown in to verify they’d decoded the magic words correctly.

  Listen to the words of Master George—they’ve been there all along!

  And they really had been there. If Tick had just known to look at the first letter of the individual clues, he probably would’ve figured out “Master George” the second they’d learned the name from Norbert up in Alaska.

  And so, after thoroughly examining the entire Journal of Curious Letters with his dad, Tick felt ready to go.

  Tomorrow night, in the cemetery close to downtown, at nine o’clock, he’d show up, alone, in warm clothing, say the words “Master George” with his eyes closed, hands in pockets, then stomp the ground with his right foot ten times.

  After that, who knew what might happen.

  ~

  Tick went downstairs to check his e-mail before bed, realizing this might be the last chance he had to see if his friends had sent anything. It was already approaching early morning on Monday for Sofia because of the time difference, and Paul was probably already in bed.

  What would happen to the others between their turns and his? If they were being taken somewhere, would they just wait around all day until he arrived? Was the staggered time difference on purpose—so Master George wouldn’t have to do . . . whatever he was going to do to everyone all at once?

  There I go again, Tick thought. Asking a billion questions even though he knew the answer was out of his reach for now. One more day. Twenty-four hours. Then, hopefully, he’d know everything at last.

  He logged in to his e-mail and was excited to see messages from both Sofia and Paul. He opened Sofia’s, who’d sent hers hours before Paul.

  Tick and Paul,

  Not much to say now, huh? Don’t think Sofia Pacini is in love with two American boys, but I really hope I see you both tomorrow. I’m sure somehow they’re going to bring us magically together. Right?

  Good luck. I wish we knew what to expect.

  Ciao,

  Sofia

  For some reason, Tick felt a pang of sadness in his heart, realizing the possibility he might never hear from Sofia again. What if something terrible happened tomorrow? What if only some of the people who performed the ritual made it to wherever they were going? Tick told himself to shut up and clicked on Paul’s e-mail.

  My little buddies,

  Hot diggity dog, tomorrow’s the day. Let’s don’t jinx anything.

  Hope you’re right about us meeting. If so, see ya tomorrow.

  Out.

  Paul

  Tick hit REPLY TO ALL and typed a quick message, knowing his friends might not see it anyway.

  Paul and Sofia,

  Good luck tomorrow. See you soon. I hope.

  Tick

  He turned off the computer and stood up, looking over at the fireplace. He thought back to the two events that had happened in the last few months related to the pile of stacked brick, now cold and dark. First, the commitment he’d made to not burn the first letter, to stay in the game—made while kneeling before a fire that could’ve ended it all. And then the bizarre incident with Kayla and the letter—something that either proved miracles really did happen or Tick had serious mental issues.

  With a swarm of butterflies in his belly, Tick finally turned out the lights and headed up the stairs to his room, ready for one last night before the Big Day he’d been preparing for since November.

  It took him over two hours to fall asleep.

  Part

  4

  ~

  The Barrier Wand

  Chapter

  36

  ~

  Among the Dead

  The next evening—Monday night, May sixth—Tick stood on the front porch with his dad, looking at his digital watch every ten seconds as the sun sank deeper and deeper behind the tree-hidden horizon. The last remnants of twilight turned the sky into an ugly black bruise, a few streaks of clouds looking like jagged scars. It h
ad just turned seven-thirty, and the temperature couldn’t possibly be any more perfect for a romp in the town cemetery. Warm, with a slight breeze bearing the strong scents of honeysuckle and pine.

  “Are you ready for this?” Dad asked for the fifth time in the last half hour.

  “I guess,” Tick replied, tugging at the scarf around his neck, in no mood to offer any smart-aleck response. He felt like he should have done more to prepare, but there was nothing he could think of to do. The only real instruction he’d been given in the Twelve Clues was to show up and do a couple of ridiculous cartoon actions.

  He did have a backpack full of warm clothing, some granola bars and water, a flashlight, some matches, and—most important—his Journal of Curious Letters. He didn’t know if he’d be stranded somewhere and suddenly realize he needed to search for clues he’d missed before. Or maybe he needed it to enter the realm of Master George—kind of like a ticket.

  Tick was as ready as he possibly could be. He looked at his dad, who seemed ten times more nervous than Tick did, wringing his hands, rocking back and forth on his feet, sweat pouring off his face. “Dad, are you okay?”

  “No.” He didn’t offer anything else.

  “Well . . . there’s nothing to worry about. I mean, it’s not like I’m going off to war or something. Mothball and Rutger will probably be there in the cemetery waiting for me. I’ll be fine.”

  “How do you know?” Dad asked, almost in a whisper.

  “How do I know what?”