“He’s following us!” Tug wailed.
Ozzie had almost forgotten about Mr. Crudge. Looping the cord around his neck, he peered around Tug’s gigantic body to see the caretaker thrashing in the doorway. It was like the tunnel was trying to keep him out, but the vile man had his hands clenched around each side of the door, eyes bulging as he tried to pull himself through. For a moment the door seemed to stretch, seemed to hold, then suddenly there was a snap and Mr. Crudge plunged through. In the same instant, the entire tunnel started to violently quake and ring with a high-pitched squeal.
“What’s happening?!” Ozzie screamed, clutching his ears.
“I don’t know!” Tug yelped.
The track was buckling and twisting; if it had been like a train before, now it was like a roller coaster—a roller coaster without seat belts. Ozzie lost all sense of direction. The lights were spiraling madly around him, as if he was caught in a blender of stars. He felt his feet leave the track, and he started to twirl away, but at the last moment he felt a tug on his collar—a Tug of the skyger variety. The mighty cat had managed to snatch him out of the air with his teeth.
“Thanks,” Ozzie gasped. “I think you just saved my life.”
“Wermphateamph,” Tug replied, still clutching Ozzie’s shirt in his mouth.
The lights were still swirling, fast as a whirlpool, and closing in on them. The high-pitched noise was growing louder. Then, out of the darkness, a door appeared. At first, Ozzie thought it was the same one they had come through. It looked identical, old and gray with flecks of turquoise blue. The main difference was that this one was hurtling toward them at breakneck speed.
They should have installed brakes on this thing, Ozzie thought. Out loud he yelled: “We’re going to crash!”
And they might have, if the door had been locked. But as soon as they struck it, the door flew open and they burst through, sprawling onto the ground beyond.
Ozzie slowly pulled himself to his feet, vaguely aware that he was outside, standing on grass. “We made it,” he murmured to Tug.
The cat’s only response was a frightened mewl.
Ozzie looked behind him to see Tug staring intently through the open doorway, into the tunnel. Mr. Crudge was hurtling straight toward them, eyes bulging and mustard teeth gnashing.
“Close the door—quick!” Ozzie screamed.
Tug flicked his tail and, whether by good aim or good luck, managed to slam the gateway shut on the first try. Only a second later, there was a thunderous boom and an explosion of fiery light that forced Ozzie to close his eyes. When he next opened them, it was completely quiet, and he was staring at a pile of smoldering wreckage.
It was all that was left of the doorway. The whole thing had collapsed to the ground, hinges twisted and chunks of it pointing in different directions, like a set of teeth that had been paid a visit by an unfriendly fist. There was no evidence of the tunnel—or of Mr. Crudge.
Ozzie nudged the nearest piece of wood with his shoe. Even though the door was in pieces, he could tell that it had looked different on this side. He couldn’t see a door knocker or a hint of turquoise. Maybe it was meant to represent my world from this end, he thought.
That’s when he realized that there was no actual wall around the door. It was—or had been—just a door standing in a forest. Bewildered, he slowly turned in a circle, gaping at his surroundings. There were trees everywhere, immense, beautiful, and ancient. But this was not simply a forest of trees, Ozzie noticed. It was a forest of doors. There were doors in every direction, sprinkled amid the tree trunks, and they were every shape, size, and color. They were just standing there, as if you might open them, walk through, and step onto the grass on the other side. Except Ozzie knew better. These were not pointless doors opening to nowhere. His door had led somewhere, and these did, too.
Then he saw the people. He hadn’t noticed them at first because they weren’t moving or talking. They were just standing there, frozen, staring at . . . well, at him.
Ozzie was used to people staring at him—once they noticed him, anyway. It was usually because of his messy hair or clothes. During these awkward moments, he usually just looked away. But these people demanded attention. In fact, Ozzie wasn’t even sure you could call them people, because they weren’t exactly human. They were as varied as the doors; some were tall and thin, others were short and squat. Some were furry, some were scaly, and some were . . . well, taily.
But they did have one thing in common, and that was that they were all travelers. This Ozzie could tell because everyone was carrying cases or bags, and they had keys, too. Ozzie could see them poking out of pockets, hanging around necks, and clutched tightly in hands.
“What’s happened here?” boomed a voice in the distance.
Uh-oh, Ozzie thought. He couldn’t see who owned the voice, but it was the kind of loud, authoritative voice that teachers used at school, the kind that filled Ozzie with dread. He turned to look at Tug, who was now lying comfortably on the grass and nonchalantly licking one of his enormous paws, as if he had completely forgotten about the collapsed door. He reminded Ozzie of the cat who lived down the street from his apartment building. One minute it would be stirring up trouble, and the next it was asleep in the sun.
“Are we in trouble?” Ozzie asked the skyger.
“No,” Tug replied earnestly. “We’re in Zoone.”
5
Captain Cho and the Thousand Doors
“Move along, everyone!” the voice commanded. “Move along!”
The voice was like hot water on ice—all at once, the clumps of travelers began to thaw and trickle off in different directions. As soon as the crowd cleared, Ozzie could see who had spoken. He looked like a soldier, the old-fashioned sort that you could find in black-and-white photographs. He was very impressive, which was partly because of his height and partly due to his uniform, which included a long turquoise coat, a tall cylindrical hat, and dark boots with matching gloves.
Ozzie glanced over at Tug, who was still licking his paw and looking conveniently innocent. Ozzie wondered what the equivalent activity for a human boy would be. Probably not licking his hand.
As the soldier marched toward them, Ozzie noticed a variety of implements hanging from his belt: a hunting horn, a sword in a curved sheath, and a pair of heavy-looking handcuffs that jangled as if to say, How’d you like to try me on for size?
“I think we’re about to get arrested,” Ozzie told Tug.
Instead, the solider marched up to the skyger, scratched him on the chin, and declared, “Welcome back, cub. Seems as if you’ve had a bit of an adventure. Right in the midst of rush hour, no less.”
“All kinds of things happened,” Tug eagerly told the soldier. “We nearly flew right off the track! If I had proper wings, that wouldn’t have been much of a problem. But you know . . .”
He gave his stumps a pitiful flap, prompting the soldier to pat him gently on the head. “There, there, Tug.” Next the man turned to Ozzie and seemed to . . . well, sniff him. Then he removed his cap, bowed, and announced, “I am Captain Cho Y’Orrick, head of Zoone security. You must be Oswald Sparks.”
Ozzie gaped at the peculiar man. He had a barrel of a chest and a neck like a tree trunk. His face was warm and brown, with an intricate tattoo under the right eye and a long scar that crossed the left. His beard was neatly trimmed, braids dangled down each side of his face, and there was a thick crop of black hair tied into a knot at the top of his head.
All of this painted a rather intimidating picture. Or at least it would have, if not for the captain’s eyes. There was warmth in those eyes, the kind you could find in a mug of hot chocolate on a Sunday afternoon with Aunt Temperance. Ozzie let out a sigh of relief. You couldn’t be afraid of someone with eyes like that.
“Well, Oswald?” Captain Cho asked, returning the cap to his head. “The skyger steal your tongue?”
Ozzie finally found his voice. “Most people call me Ozzie. But how do you know who I a
m?”
“Lady Zoone said her friend might show up with her nephew in tow,” Cho replied. “A boy with a whiff of magic about him. And there is a whiff about you, lad. But where is your aunt? And what happened to the door?”
“Bad wizard,” Tug announced.
Cho looked at the skyger strangely. “There are no wizards in Eridea. At least, not anymore.”
“Eridea?” Ozzie wondered.
“It’s our name for your world,” Cho explained.
Ozzie turned and contemplated the pile of wood—all that remained of the door. “It just exploded. So, does that mean . . . I’m stuck here?”
If he was being completely honest with himself, he wasn’t feeling very distraught. His parents never seemed to offer so much as a glance over a shoulder when they left to go traipsing across the world. It would serve them right if he couldn’t go back. Well, at least not right away.
“Ozzie needs to go home eventually,” Tug informed the captain. “His aunt is there. And, just to tell you, she’s really sick.”
Ozzie felt a stab of guilt. Tug was right; he couldn’t forget Aunt Temperance. But it wasn’t like any of this was his fault. Was it? “The door’s not permanently broken, though,” Ozzie probed. “Right?”
Captain Cho paced carefully around the wreckage, scratching his chin. “I’ve never seen a door do this,” he said delicately. “It’s the only one to Eridea. That we know of, anyway.”
Great, Ozzie thought. It was like going on vacation to a deserted island, only to have the ship sink the moment it dropped you off. Except, he realized as he began taking in more of his surroundings, this place isn’t exactly deserted. . . .
“It would be natural to worry,” Cho said, bending on one knee to put a heavy hand on Ozzie’s shoulder. “But listen, lad, there still could be a way to return you home. After all, the wizards are coming!” He stood to his full height and added, “In the meantime, if you’re going to be stuck anywhere, it might as well be Zoone. The center of the multiverse. The world between worlds.”
Ozzie straightened up. The captain’s words were filled with potential—and not his dad’s not-good-enough version, but the positive kind, the Aunt Temperance untapped-secret-energy kind.
“That’s a lad,” Cho said. “Come on. I’ll take you to the station to see Lady Zoone. She knows all about the wizards’ convention and how to get you sorted. Let’s make haste. Fusselbone, our chief conductor, is going to arrive at any moment to cordon off the door, or what’s left of it. You don’t want to be here when that happens.”
“Why not?” Ozzie asked.
“He’s an arbo,” Tug added, as if this somehow explained everything.
It didn’t, of course, but Cho and the skyger had already set off through the woods and Ozzie had to hurry to keep up.
They passed a lot of doors, so many that Ozzie’s mind was soon performing cartwheels in a vain attempt to imagine where each of them led. Some doors were made of iron, with giant studs and braces. Others were built from ancient wood, decorated with hinges that whorled fancifully across painted slats. There were even doors of stone, carved with reliefs of horned and winged beasts and overgrown with lichen. Each door had a keyhole and a mail slot, and some were adorned with elaborate door knockers, many of which looked like monstrous faces clenching heavy rings between their teeth. Some of them called a greeting to the captain as he walked by—or at least mumbled one; Ozzie supposed it was hard to speak when you had a mouthful of metal.
“How many doors are there?” Ozzie asked Cho.
“A thousand at least,” the captain replied. “It’s difficult to keep count; doors sometimes come and go. And we’re only on the east platform. There are four platforms, and rings upon rings of doors, radiating into the Infinite Wood, which is what this forest is called. So, right now, you’re only seeing a fraction of the grounds.”
“Pretty spectacular, don’t you think, Ozzie?” Tug asked, bounding around him so exuberantly that a nearby traveler with a cone of maroon hair had to scramble out of the way.
“Try to stay calm, cub,” Cho told the skyger gently. “You don’t want Fusselbone to ban you from the platforms again!”
“Just to tell you,” Tug confided to Ozzie, “that happens a lot.”
They soon broke free of the forest, into a clearing paved with flagstones. There were many more doors here, all arranged in concentric circles, just as Cho had explained. Ozzie didn’t dwell long on these doors, though. His eyes drifted above, to what lay beyond the platform: the most magnificent building he had ever seen.
Up to this moment, Ozzie had expected Zoone Station to resemble a bus or train depot. But, if anything, it looked like an enormous castle, the kind that belonged in a fairy tale, a dream, or at least one of the more colorful corners of Ozzie’s imagination. The building was bright turquoise in color, trimmed with gold and punctuated by towers with giant, bulb-shaped domes. The walls featured latticed windows, balconies, and alcoves where whimsical statues danced on their bases, like characters in a cuckoo clock. Everything seemed so vibrant and alive; Ozzie couldn’t help thinking that the station was a breathing, thinking organism, that it might suddenly pick itself up and trundle off—though not in a frightening way. If anything, it urged him to speed up, in case it left him behind.
A palatial staircase led up to a grand entrance. Ozzie raced up the steps, toward the station, only to immediately lose himself in the throng of travelers. Ozzie turned around, but there was no sign of Tug or Captain Cho.
How can you lose a skyger? Ozzie wondered. He turned again, searching for the enormous cat, only to stumble into a scruffy-looking man.
“Outta me way, boy. Got a track to catch!” the traveler growled.
In addition to his surly expression, he was wearing a frayed tunic, scuffed leather gloves, and a pair of goggles. He seemed so rough and ready for action that Ozzie instinctively backed away, only to bump into someone with the complete opposite look, a lady wearing a sumptuous brocaded outfit. Her hair was electric pink and styled into a shape that reminded Ozzie of a clamshell.
“Parents these days,” the woman complained, lifting her nose to the air, “letting their children wander anywhere without supervision. Where’s your mother? I should march over there and give her a piece of my mind!”
You’re going to have to march a long way, lady, Ozzie thought.
He ducked away from the woman and kept climbing, thinking that the higher he got, the better his view of the platform would be—and the better his chance of finding Tug and Cho. It was so much busier on the stairs than the platform, though, and the next thing Ozzie knew, he was being swept into the lobby. He wormed his way to the side, where he found long lines of travelers waiting for what Ozzie assumed were ticket agents. They were all busy at work behind a lavish wooden counter and, behind them, hanging on pegs, were thousands of keys, all shapes and sizes.
The keys must work like tickets, Ozzie surmised.
He was right; a moment later he overheard one of the agents say to a traveler, “One key for Elandor? That will be sixty-five Elandorian crowns. Or thirty-three zoonderas, if you prefer.”
“Just to go to Elandor?” came the disgruntled reply.
Ozzie was jostled out of the way, so he didn’t hear the end of the conversation. By the time he extracted himself from the crowd, he was standing at the top of a short staircase. Clinging to the railing, he looked down and gasped.
Stretching before him, as cavernous as an arena, was the hub of the station. Travelers were rushing past each other or crisscrossing paths to reach different destinations. A cacophony of voices hummed in his ears. In the very middle of the hub was an elegant fountain, while around the perimeter were all sorts of shops, like the ones Ozzie had come to know in subway stations or airport terminals while seeing his parents off on their various trips. Above the storefronts, positioned along the high walls, were message boards listing the schedules for different tracks or displaying important notices, such as: Door 352 to Muss
ica closed temporarily for maintenance. Take Door 353 to Cariola and transfer. Above each of the four entrances to the hub was a humongous clock, though they had so many hands and dials that Ozzie couldn’t work out what sort of time they were telling. He tilted his head back to gaze at the vaulted ceiling, high above. It was like something out of a cathedral, though instead of being decorated with angels and saints, this one was painted with wizards, dragons, and other mythical creatures.
The whole place had a feeling, like being struck by a wave of energy. Ozzie could feel it reverberating through him, as if the hub was an electrical current and he was the wire. Or maybe it was like a magnet, because he couldn’t resist wandering down the stairs and into the fray. He felt the gusts from people beetling past him and he had the sudden idea that he was standing in the heart of the universe.
Make that the multiverse, he corrected himself. Isn’t that what Cho called it?
He elbowed his way through the crowd, toward the outskirts of the hub, and wondered how he would ever find Tug and the captain in such a busy place.
Maybe they have a missing persons or lost and found or something, he thought as he checked out the various shops.
He arrived at a cluster of plants. There were potted flowers and ferns, and even a few trees. They offered a sort of haven from the hustle and bustle of the hub, and Ozzie wound his way through them until he reached a tall turquoise door. It was shut, but it featured a pair of ornate letters that caught Ozzie’s attention.
“L-Z,” he read out loud.
There was a doorbell below the letters and, even though it looked like a mischievous face clenching a button in its teeth, Ozzie felt the sudden urge to push it. He reached for the bell, only to hear a nearby voice announce, “Trim me to a twig! If it isn’t Oswald Sparks.”
With a start, Ozzie turned to see a tall figure step from the plants and trees surrounding the door. It was the same lady who had visited Apartment 2B, though now her hat was gone. In its place was a towering nest of verdant hair, rustling with birds, squirrels, and—unsurprisingly—mice with green spots. It should have been gross (Ozzie could only imagine what Aunt Temperance would say), but it wasn’t. Somehow, it seemed natural.
The Secret of Zoone Page 4