by Adam Rex
“I feel like,” he said, struggling to put it into words, “like my fingers have to sneeze. I feel like …”
“Running through the hills and twirling like a nun in a movie,” finished John.
“That isn’t what I was going to say.”
Merle was watching them. “I have no idea what you guys are on about. I’m okay with that.”
They’d emerged from the rift in a tangled glen, tearing through shrubbery and scattering field mice in every direction. There was no way to get your bearings in a land with no sun, no moon, no stars, but Mick assured them they were in Ireland, in the forests near Killarney. Close to his old mound, in fact. The sky was a Prussian blue above, warming to pumpkin orange at the horizons. Everything seemed brighter than it should have. As if the whole world might be faintly luminous, like a dying glow stick.
“All right, enough gawkin’,” said Mick. He addressed Merle and John. “Unless yis have plans to the contrary, England is that way, an’ may the road rise to meet yeh. If Scott has no objections, I’d like to stop off at my old mound an’ see if anyone’s been waterin’ my plants. Finchbriton?”
The little bird chirruped.
“I love yeh like the ugly son I never had, but I wan’ yeh to consider goin’ with John an’ Merle here. They have the more dangerous mission an’ could use a real powerhouse like you. Of course Scott an’ I’d be delighted to have your company—all your little stories, your thoughts on love an’ life an’ so forth.”
Finchbriton seemed to consider the options, then he tweeted his decision and flew to John’s shoulder.
“Oh, thank goodness,” said Merle. “You know my Slumbro doesn’t even work on the Fay.”
John was lingering, like he wanted to be knighted just for refusing to lie. Honesty wasn’t all that hard.
“So, bye,” Scott said finally.
John nodded, taking his medicine.
They all said their good-byes and parted. Scott and Mick pressed through the woods—Mick easily, gracefully, Scott as if he were being pranked constantly by a spiteful slapstick universe. He tripped on roots, stumbled over logs, was poked by thickets, had his face raked by brambles.
“It’s just up ahead,” said Mick. “The ol’ mound. An’ when I say mound, I’m not bein’ modest—’s a mound. But inside it was as cozy as your mother’s handbag. Here we are.”
They arrived at a small clearing and a mound of earth ringed by small mushrooms. Atop the mound was a weathered and whitewashed wooden cross. Mick stared quizzically at the cross.
“Well, that’s new. I hope you won’t be offended when I tell yeh it has no place on a leprechaun’s domicile.”
“There’s something tied to it,” said Scott, and he climbed up, wondering too late if it was bad manners to just hike up another man’s house like this. At the base of the cross was a pair of very old, shriveled baby shoes. They’d probably been calfskin or something similar, but now they were hard and dry as raisins.
“Well, Monday Tuesday an’ Wednesday—it’s you, Finchfather. Isn’t it,” said a voice, and they turned to see a man in the nearby trees. He wasn’t a tall man, but he nonetheless appeared to be a sprightly, smartly dressed human.
Mick squinted. “Lusmore? By my baby teeth, it is you. Older, sure, but still alive, after all these years.”
“It’s thanks to all that fairy food an’ drink I ate, plus all the gifts the Good Folk gave me,” said Lusmore.
Scott gave Mick what he hoped was an appropriately what-the-heck? look.
“Exception that proves the rule,” said Mick.
“How have you been, Finchfather?” asked Lusmore. “Where have you been? Is it true there’s another Ireland out there, beyond the veil?”
“I’m going by Mick these days. This here’s Scott, a changeling friend o’ mine.” Lusmore bowed. “An’ there is another Ireland, an we’re hopin’ to speak with Her Majesty the High Queen abou’ that. Yeh know where she can be found presently?”
Lusmore smiled. “Just so happens I do. It’ll be nice to do yeh a favor, after all your people did for me.”
“Oh, come now—we only paid yeh in kind for improvin’ on that song we all had stuck in our heads. What’s the story here?” Mick asked, hitching his thumb toward the cross atop his mound.
Lusmore gave the cross a sad smile. “The day you disappeared, she arrived. Just a wee babby, no aul’ wan to care for her. The Good Folk tried to take her in, make a changeling of her, but yeh know how it is. Sometimes they don’t thrive. They gave her a Christian burial, as they thought proper for one such as she.”
“Baby Ann,” whispered Mick. “Poor lass.”
“Aye.”
They took a moment. But then old Lusmore stepped up the mound.
“If yeh want to catch up to your queen, we’ll have to move fast,” he said. “Now Mick, yeh’re lookin’ as glamourous as the Lord’s haircut, so I’ll bet if yeh rummage through your things yeh’ll happen to find two oilskin sacks just big enough for you an’ your friend. ’Cause that’s what yeh’re going to need.”
CHAPTER 23
It turned out Mick did have two such sacks in his mound, not to mention a fresh red tracksuit, which didn’t even make any sense. They took the sacks and followed Lusmore through the wilderness.
“Hustle now,” he said. “Not much time.”
Their movement stirred all manner of creatures—unseen, but they rustled the underbrush. High above, the trees groaned and clicked, clicked, clicked, as if speaking to one another in their own language,
“Have ta admit,” said Mick, “things have changed in the last hunnerd an’ fifty years. The forests seem more built up, wilder.”
“A lot has changed, an that’s the truth,” said Lusmore, and Scott thought he heard a grim note in the man’s voice. “Now, while we walk we’ll be lookin’ for a particular plant. Weedy-lookin’ thing, with little white flowers and fleshy leaves. Try not to touch any others.”
“Any other whats?” asked Scott.
“Plants. Here’s a helpful little song: Leaves o’ one, turn an’ run. Leaves o’ two, not for you. Leaves o’ three, leave it be. Leaves o’ four, instant death. We used to have a better rhyme for that, but too many little ones were dying for the sake o’ poetry. Leaves o’ five—”
“And why are we looking for this plant?” asked Scott, trying to hold his arms as close as he could to his body.
“Right. So abou’ sixty years ago Titania grew tired of moving her whole entourage from one castle to another all the time, season after season, so she asked the sorceress Queen Morgan le Fay to enchant the Tower o’ London. She moved herself an’ her whole retinue inside, an’ now it just disappears from one place and pops up in the next, quick as yeh like.”
“The whole thing?”
“Every last brick. Well, the whole White Tower, anyway. Ah! Here we are!”
Lusmore took a small knife from his belt and carefully cut a cluster of weeds free of the earth. Each had a spray of tiny white flowers. He handed them to Mick and Scott.
“Don’t let the young one put these in his mouth.”
Mick gave Scott a stern look, and Scott rolled his eyes. “So,” he said, “the Tower of London is nearby?”
“Was nearby. She was just off the peninsula this mornin’, inspectin’ the boundaries of the Gloria Wall. Now she’s up in Dub Linn.”
“All respect, Lusmore,” said Mick, “but this helps us how? Dublin is two hundred miles away.”
“Follow me into this meadow, an’ all will be revealed.”
Scott was noticing the first signs of a path, and a tall, rough stone, standing upright, with symbols carved into its face. An octagon and a moon. After another twenty feet, there was another on the opposite side of the path, with a moon and two stars. Then they broke through a hedge and into a meadow, and there stood three ravens the size of cement trucks.
“Woah,” said Scott, taking a step back.
“Gentlemen,” said Lusmore, “the famous ravens
of the Tower of London!”
The meadow narrowed to a wide stone wall, the ruins of some old fortress. Here and there were more standing stones, like jagged fingers reaching out of the earth. They also bore carvings of spirals, moons, octagons, stars, a crude dragon with outstretched wings. One prominent stone showed two overlapping circles, bisected by a sharp line. Mincing among these stones were the three blue-black birds, their nightmare feet pulling up tufts of grass and soil. Their beaks were clacking like gunshots. One of them watched Scott and Mick and Lusmore with its glassy black eye, followed them with brisk movements of its head.
“The famous what of what?” Scott whispered.
“The Tower o’ London has always been famous for its ravens,” said Mick. “For its perfectly ordinary-sized ravens,” he added, glancing at Lusmore. “What’s the story?”
“You know how spellcastin’ can be,” said Lusmore. “Unintended consequences. The ravens got caught in the edge o’ Morgan’s spell, became a part of it. Now yeh can’t separate ’em. The ravens don’t disappear along with the tower, but as soon as it’s gone they pick up an’ follow it. It’s uncanny, but they always know where to find it.”
Scott watched a fourth raven, just beyond the ruins of the stone wall, amble into view.
“Poor things have gotten fat an’ stupid on all the magic they’ve been soakin’ up over the years, though. They can only fly a short bit before they’re knackered.”
“So we capture one and ride it to Queen Titania’s court,” said Scott.
That wasn’t the plan, but Lusmore made sure to let them know that he thought it was adorable.
Lusmore explained the actual plan, explained that people did it all the time, which was how Scott and Mick came to be hopping into the middle of a meadow, covered head to toe in oilskin sacks, while the Irishman shouted to them from the trees that they needed to wiggle their bums more.
“I can’t see,” said Scott.
“That’s probably for the best, don’t yeh think?” asked Mick.
“You two are the most unappetizin’ grubs I ever did see!” Lusmore called to them, distantly. “Wiggle it! Wiggle it!”
“Maybe this isn’t any kind of plan at all,” said Scott. “Maybe this is just a joke he plays on out-of-towners.”
Then it happened. Scott couldn’t see anything, but he was certain he was swallowed whole by a giant raven. He felt the lacquered black coffin of a beak snap around him with a thunderclap. He tipped up and slid back, and felt himself being forced in fits and starts down the creature’s esophagus, then dropped down with a little splash into what science class had told him must be the stomach. A few seconds later he heard another splash beside him.
“Mick?”
“Yep.”
Scott sighed and tried to breathe through his mouth.
“I’m glad we ended up inside the same bird.”
“Aye.”
It wasn’t long before the flock took flight, and Scott sloshed around, trying to touch the oilskin sack as little as possible, doing his best to stay dry. He knew the sack was supposed to be waterproof, but he’d owned enough supposedly waterproof raincoats to know that the rain always won in the end. He tried to think about what he was going to say to Titania. Public speaking wasn’t really his thing. He’d always hated oral reports in school.
Twice the ravens landed and rested, and took to the air again. Lusmore had instructed them that they wouldn’t be at the tower until all the ravens cawed at once.
“Mick?”
“Yeah, lad?”
“I’m in a bird.”
“I as well, boyo.”
He listened to the raven’s heartbeat for a while.
“Mick?”
“Still here.”
“I’m supposed to be in the sixth grade.”
“I know yeh are, son.”
“I thought maybe everyone’d forgotten.”
Finally they landed for the last time, and heard their raven crow, and the muffled croaks of six or seven other ravens join in chorus. That was the signal. Scott opened his Swiss Army knife and cut the tiniest slit he could in his sack, then pushed the plant with the little white flowers through the slit, into the raven’s stomach. It took a second, but the stomach convulsed like a waterbed.
Here we go, thought Scott.
The raven pitched its neck out, huck huck huck, and then Mick and Scott spilled to the lawn in front of the Tower of London. Scott finished cutting open his sack and stepped out, hoping for a James-Bond-emerging-from-his-scuba-suit-in-full-tuxedo kind of impression, even though he had to admit it probably didn’t look like that at all. Mick did the same. The raven left the scene out of general embarrassment.
They ran, just to get away from the birds, hugging the wall of the castle. It was gleaming even in the twilight of Pretannica, dripping whitewash. It wasn’t a huge castle by any means, and Scott and Mick had quickly turned a corner and then another before pausing to calm their nerves.
Scott looked up at the White Tower. “We made it,” he said with a swell of pride.
A strange voice said, “Aye, you did, recreants; now who are you?”
CHAPTER 24
Biggs finished sewing Emily a little lab coat covered with pockets, and he made her model it for him while he tried to whistle (couldn’t) and clapped arrhythmically. She filled these pockets with all kinds of scientific equipment and devices—an oscilloscope, a laser pointer, concave and convex mirrors, spider-web bolometers for the measurement of the cosmic microwave background radiation; that sort of thing. One pocket alone held something fanciful and unscientific—the shamrock Mick had found in Pretannica—and this was to remind her that there might be limits to what she could learn through science. Even though she didn’t really believe this. Even though she currently suspected that “magic” was just another kind of science, with rules she didn’t understand yet.
The sheep minced about on their tethers. The adder slithered around, possibly reasserting the borders of its narrowing territory. They’d all really disrupted the good thing the snake had going in this basement, and Emily wondered if it had eaten even once since their crew moved in. She felt sorry for it, but interested, too—the adder had hissed right before anyone or anything passed through the rift. As if it could see what Scott had seen—the shapes of both travelers merging, darkly, into one shape before they traded places. Emily never saw anything of the sort. To her, Mick would just be standing there one moment, and then the next, a fox. Or four humans, and then, the next moment, three sheep.
Not that she’d actually been in the room for that one. She hadn’t actually seen it.
She’d been so certain that four humans would require four sheep. She thought as she sat down in front of the rift with Archimedes. Maybe because Scott and Polly were smaller …?
“Oh, good,” said Erno as he came down the stairs. “Biggs made you a mad scientist costume.”
Emily stiffened. “I’m not mad.”
Erno shuffled his feet. “I know. It was just—”
“You mean because of Mr. Wilson? Because he’s crazy, and we were both taking the Milk? Is that what you were thinking?”
“Hey,” said Erno, with his hands up. “You know I don’t usually start thinking until I’m done talking.”
Emily watched him tensely for a moment, then she sagged. “Sorry,” she said, barely.
“What’s up with you?” said Erno. “You’ve been chewing on my head for days.”
“I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at Dad. Mr. Wilson.”
“Well, I’m mad at him too,” said Erno.
“Yeah, but you’ve been mad at him for years. You’re better at it. Plus I’m mad that he’s a coward, that he’s hiding … I mean, yes, it’s great he was obviously gathering all this secret information all these years and keeping it from Goodco, great that he’s feeding it to us, but now he’s letting a bunch of kids do all the dangerous stuff for him while he … nibbles chocolates in Switzerland or whatever.”
&nbs
p; “Why Switzerland?”
“That’s where I’d go. And then I could tour the Large Hadron Collider near Geneva—”
“Is this why you hate me working on his new clue so much?” asked Erno.
Emily sighed. “Probably. I just don’t even want to hear about it. I’m angry at a piece of paper. Proof I’m getting stupider.”
One of the sheep made a sheep noise, which was just the sound effect for a statement like that. Emily frowned at the sheep.
“Stupider or not, I swear I can still count,” she said. “Four people needed four sheep. Someone didn’t go through the rift.”
Polly, Fi, and Harvey got to the Goodco factory in Slough easily enough after Harvey stole a taxicab.
“Itth not thtealing,” the pooka explained. “They’re public automobileth. Don’t you thee them everywhere, those boxy black thingth? You take a free one, you leave it when you’re finished for the next perthon. It’th a British thing.”
Polly didn’t feel like she was in a position to argue. After she’d learned they drove on the wrong side of the road here, she was prepared to believe anything.
Now they lay on their stomachs on a knoll at the edge of the Goodco parking lot, watching the entrance. Polly wished they had binoculars. And costumes.
“Okay,” said Polly. “We sneak in, we find the pixies, we sneak out. Easy.”
Nobody made any motion to do anything in particular.
“Might not even be in there anymore,” Harvey offered. “Rumor wath alwayth that Goodco put pixthie in the Pufteeth.”
“Harvey!”
“Jutht a little bit of pixthie, mind you, ground up. Pixthie dutht.”
“You are a vulgar and hateful beast,” Fi murmured.
The little hill was silent and chilly for a minute.
“The Goodco factory back home had groups of schoolkids going in and out a million times a day,” Polly grumbled. “If only there was something like that, I could sneak in at the back.”
Fi said, “I expect one of my size could enter quite easily alone.”