Emily and the Spellstone

by Michael Rubens

  She seated herself at the scarred wooden table in the center of the tower room, surrounded by skeletons and glass tubes and jars containing shocking things. Gently cradling the earlike mushroom in her hands and focusing her mind, Acrimina leaned forward and began to whisper cajoling words into it.

  There are some very rare people who will never do a bad thing, no matter what the cost is to themselves, and will try to stop others from doing bad things.

  Other people—​most of us, really—​won’t usually do a bad thing, but might not always step up and put a stop to a bad thing when they see one happening.

  Then, further down the scale, are those people—​and there are too many of them—​who will see a bad thing happening and say, Well, everyone else is doing it, why not just join in?

  And then there are the people who will do a bad thing with barely any nudging at all.

  People such as, say, Kristy Meyer.

  She was not thinking in such philosophical terms as she walked away from school on that Tuesday with her posse of friends. She wasn’t exactly sure what she was doing, or why, but when she came out of cheerleading practice and saw Angela Rodriguez leaving the school, she’d simply said, “Let’s follow her.”

  Almost as though someone had whispered into her ear and told her to do it.

  Her friends, sensing mischief in the air the way sharks sense blood in the water, fell in line. They were joined by some boys who were also drawn by the promise of trouble, the group losing in collective judgment as it gained in numbers.

  Angela, walking alone on her way to Emily’s house, was listening to music on her headphones. She wasn’t aware of the pack stalking her.

  There was a sour merriment in the group as the kids drew closer to her, anticipation growing. If you’d stopped and asked any single one of them, “What are you doing? What are you planning on doing?” not one of them would have been able to answer.

  Far away in the high tower, Acrimina whispered and cajoled and instructed.

  Angela was almost in Emily’s front yard when the group attacked, hands punching and scratching at her and pushing her to the ground.

  Emily was in her room when she heard the commotion: shouts, mean laughter, an indignant voice. Angela’s voice.

  She took the stairs two at a time. Hilary was slumped in her favorite chair. Her pinkies had started to hurt, so she was now texting using a pencil clasped between her teeth.

  “What’s going on out there?” said Emily.

  Hilary glanced at her. “’Ow ’ould I ’ow?” she gritted out, and went back to texting.

  Emily opened the front door. Out in the street Angela was surrounded by a wolf pack of kids. They were playing keep-away with her backpack, tossing it from one to another as Angela chased after it, pushing her when she got too close.

  “Hey!” shouted Emily, and ran out to help.

  The Stone was still upstairs on the windowsill.

  In the high tower, Acrimina kept up her efforts but shifted her focus to another target.

  Dougie was playing out back in the Edelmans’ yard. He was positioning his cars and trucks on the patio for what would be a massive multivehicle pileup. Which was usually one of his favorite activities. Then, all of a sudden, it was totally boring. What would be interesting? Maybe Emily had something in her room . . . ?

  For some reason Dougie went right to the strange stone sitting on Emily’s windowsill. Almost as if someone was directing him to it. When he picked up the object, his eyes widened in surprise and delight at the glowing screen. What was this—​Emily had a mobile phone?! How come he’d never seen it? And why did it look like a rock?

  Who cared. It was cool.

  A particular icon seemed to be trying to get his attention. CASTLE DEFENDER! it said in flashing letters. He tapped on the image.

  “Cooooool.”

  He knew this kind of game: little figures storming across a field toward a castle, while the player tried to defend the structure—​tapping on the screen to add fighters here, siege engines there, build up the bulwarks on this side . . . Sighing happily, Dougie settled in to play.

  A long way away, Acrimina Venomüch descended the stairs from the tower. She was tired but satisfied. The plan she had set in motion was working perfectly.

  She joined her husband and children in what they called the dying room. They were gathered around a large bowl filled with something that looked like oil but was even darker. In it they could see Dougie playing with the Stone.

  “He may not be her,” said Acrimina to her husband, “but he is closely related enough that he can use the Stone. At least enough for our purposes.”

  “So he’ll come here, Ma?” asked Maligna.

  “Not at first,” said Acrimina. “Too difficult. Too distant. But he’ll go to a place from which we can fetch him. And that will be your task, my darlings.” Her children giggled their hideous giggle.

  “And once we have him . . .” said Maligno Sr.

  “Yes,” said Acrimina. “She and her creature will follow.”

  Emily had seen a nature special on TV where adolescent baboons fought one another viciously, and that’s what Kristy and her friends seemed like now: wild-eyed and feral and mindless, their humanity gone. They laughed raucously as they pummeled and clawed and kicked at her and Angela as the two tried to get Angela’s bag back.

  “Stop it!” yelled Emily. “Give it back!”

  “Give it back! Give it back!” they mocked.

  “Don’t give it to her!” said Kristy. Her eyes were gleaming slits. They scared Emily, those eyes.

  This was all happening more or less in front of Mr. Petersen’s house. He had stayed home from school that day, because he still felt somewhat unsteady as he tried to sort out what, exactly, had happened the day before. He’d spent a lot of time sitting in a chair, holding the werewolf-made mug in his hands and staring dumbly at it.

  That’s what he was doing now, but his thoughts kept being interrupted by some sort of ruckus happening outside. He decided to go take a look.

  Oh, no, he thought when he opened his front door. It’s that dreadful Emily Edelman girl. What kind of trouble is she making now?

  When Emily saw Mr. Petersen, she shouted to him: “Mr. Petersen!”

  All of the kids froze, a boy named Drew holding Angela’s backpack.

  “Hello, Emily,” Mr. Petersen said politely. “What’s going on out here?”

  “Hi, Mr. Petersen!” said Kristy sweetly.

  “Oh, hello, Kristy!” said Mr. Petersen, visibly brightening. “Are you all having fun?”

  “Yes, we’re just playing!” said Kristy.

  “Wonderful! Well, carry on!” he said, and closed the door.

  “Wait!” shouted Emily, but he was gone.

  Kristy smiled viciously at her, and Emily took an involuntary step backwards, triumphant hatred radiating from Kristy almost like a physical wave.

  “No one’s going to help you,” said Kristy quietly. “No one will ever be your friend. I control the school.” She directed her gaze at Drew. “You!” she said, pointing at him. “Throw the bag in that tree!”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Drew spun himself in a quick circle to gain momentum and hurled the bag high into a tree in the yard across from Emily’s house. The other kids cheered and laughed.

  Kristy smiled at Emily and Angela. “See you tomorrow!” she said.

  And just like that, it was over. Angela and Emily watched in silence as the others moved off, laughing and congratulating one another.

  In the living room, Hilary was oblivious to it all, deftly handling seven text conversations at once.

  Up in Emily’s bedroom, Dougie was as happy as could be. The game was the most realistic he had ever played—​he almost felt as if he could reach out and touch the little characters who were scurrying around, thumping one another. Ugglins and Gugglins, they were called. He played and played, oblivious to his surroundings, so absorbed in the game that he barely noticed w
hen he was . . . literally absorbed in the game.

  “Ow,” said Emily.

  “Sorry,” said Angela, who had one foot on Emily’s head. She reached up to grab hold of a branch and then pulled herself awkwardly up into the tree.

  “I’m so angry at them,” said Emily, as she watched Angela climb higher toward the branch where the bag was dangling.

  “I’m not,” said Angela. “I mean, I guess I am, but who cares about them. But you know what’s weird?”

  “The fact that Kristy Meyer is so horrible for no reason? And also, everything that’s happened over the past week?”

  “Well, yeah, but about what just happened now.”

  Angela stepped onto another branch. Twigs rained down near Emily.

  “It’s like they weren’t even thinking,” said Angela. “Like they weren’t even in control.”

  “They weren’t. It was Kristy,” said Emily. “Kristy’s the ringleader. She made them do it.”

  “I guess,” said Angela. She reached the desired branch and gave it a hard shake, and then another. The bag came loose and Emily caught it as it descended, more twigs and leaves falling around her. A few moments later Angela dropped down from the lowest branch and dusted herself off.

  “What?” she said to Emily. “What are you thinking about?”

  “Not sure,” said Emily. There was something about what Angela had said that made her uneasy. Something about the look in Kristy’s eyes. As if . . . as if someone else had been looking out through them. “You’re right. It was like they weren’t thinking for themselves,” she said. “I’d never do it, but in the middle of it all, I had half a mind to get the Stone and . . .” She trailed off.

  “What?” said Angela.

  “The Stone,” said Emily. “The Stone!” She turned and ran toward her house. “Come on!”

  The first thing Emily saw when she and Angela burst into her room was the Stone lying on the floor. It was glowing. Emily snatched it up.

  What she saw made her whole body go cold.

  “Oh, no,” she whispered.

  Chapter

  Twelve

  “Dougie!” Emily said as loudly as she dared, holding the Stone up to her mouth. “Dougie!”

  “What’s going on?” said Angela.

  “It’s Dougie. My little brother. He’s in here!” Emily said, pointing at the Stone. “It’s like he got sucked into a game!”

  Emily had summoned Gorgo almost immediately. Now he leaned in for a closer look. “Yep, that looks like him,” he said.

  The game appeared to still be in progress. The characters were all very small, but there could be no doubt: Dougie was in there, seated on a throne on top of a castle, apparently directing a battle.

  “Oh, Dougie, you fool! He’s always wanting to play games on my parents’ phones. He must have somehow found this game, and . . .”

  “Somehow?” said Angela. “You think this was an accident?”

  “You’re right. They must have done this. That family.”

  Their gazes met.

  “All that with Kristy, it was just a distraction,” said Angela. “So you’d go outside and be separated from the Stone.”

  “They’re trying to get Dougie,” said Emily.

  “To get to you,” finished Angela.

  “I have to get him out of there!”

  “Why?” said Gorgo. “Look at the points he’s racking up! That has got to be a high score!”

  The girls glared at him.

  “Oh, c’mon, I’m just trying to lighten the mood!” he said. “But seriously, check out that score . . .”

  Just then, the game quit, the placid window of the Stone returning.

  “No!” Emily started to cry. “It’s my fault!” she said between sobs. “It’s all my fault! What am I going to do?”

  Angela did her best to console her. Gorgo looked extremely uncomfortable. Then suddenly Emily stopped crying and seemed to be staring at nothing.

  “What?” said Angela.

  “If I can’t get him out, I’m going to go get him.”

  “You know it’s a trap,” said Angela.

  “I’m still going to go get him.”

  “I’m not sure you’re going to be able to,” said Gorgo.

  Emily looked at him.

  “You mean ‘we,’” she said.

  “Oh, no,” he said.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “You’re coming with.”

  Turning her attention to the Stone, Emily muttered something to herself and then jabbed her finger at the magical device.

  To Angela it appeared that Emily was just touching the smooth surface of the Stone. Then Angela watched in fascination as Emily placed the Stone on her nightstand and, with a very concentrated expression on her face, began moving her fingers in complex patterns—​sometimes as if she were putting a finger on an invisible point in space, sometimes as though she were stretching taffy, sometimes as if she were weaving an unseen cat’s cradle in midair. All the while she muttered and nodded to herself.

  “What’s she doing?” whispered Angela.

  “Shh. She’s mapping,” said Gorgo. “Finding a route.”

  She was. Floating in front of Emily was a dazzling, luminous web of points and lines that stretched and changed as she moved them around. She didn’t understand the map, exactly—​she just knew, somehow, that she was seeing the infinitely complex connections between different worlds and realms and universes, seeing how some locations were apparently very distant but could be reached directly, while other, closer realms might require several steps to get there.

  Sometimes her attention would waver and the whole thing would go hazy or start to fade.

  Intention, Emily thought. Concentrate on what you require, and let the Stone do the work.

  There! That’s where Dougie was: a tiny glowing spot. And there, that nauseous green blob up here, that was where the Venomüches were. Of course—​by following the interwoven lines, she could see why the Venomüches needed to first trap Dougie at an intermediate stop, because there was no direct route.

  Angela watched Emily wave her hands as if clearing smoke, then snatch up the Stone again and peer intently at the screen. She jabbed the Stone with a finger again, put it down, and now started to make vertical motions with her hands as if she were dog-paddling, with the occasional sideways swipe.

  “What’s she doing now?”

  “Arranging the travel,” said Gorgo. “Hey, look, there’s a deal on beach trips to Lankhmargh! Okay, okay, I’ll be quiet.”

  Emily stopped the waving and swiping motions and seemed to be examining her handiwork.

  “Three hundred TCs? Three hundred TwitCoins?” said Emily.

  “What?” said Angela.

  “That’s how much it will cost to travel to where Dougie is and get him back,” said Emily. “Three hundred TCs.”

  “Three hundred TwitCoins is a pretty good deal,” said Gorgo.

  “It doesn’t matter how good a deal it is! It’s three hundred TwitCoins more than I have!” said Emily.

  “Oh, that is a problem,” said Gorgo.

  “Gorgo, where would I get TwitCoins?”

  “Well . . .” said Gorgo, then cut himself off. He grimaced, squirming uncomfortably.

  “Well what?”

  “I . . .”

  “Spit it out, Gorgo.”

  “I have some TwitCoins.”

  “So give them to me!”

  “It’s not that easy!”

  “You have to obey me, Gorgo. I’m not stealing the money. I’ll pay you back, somehow. What’s the problem?”

  “They’re in my pigggy bank.”

  “Pig-iggy bank?” said Angela. “You mean ‘piggy bank’?”

  “No, I think he means ‘pig-iggy bank,’” said Emily. “Is a pigggy bank to a piggy bank as a dogg is to a dog?”

  “Yep. It’s like a piggy bank, but it’s a lot harder to get your money out.”

  “Why?”

  “Because a pigggy b
ank will fight back.”

  “Wait,” said Angela. “What’s a dogg?”

  “Like a doggg, but not as bad,” said Gorgo.

  “Thanks, that’s helpful,” said Angela.

  “Gorgo, this is an emergency,” said Emily.

  “Okay, okay. But the real problem isn’t that the TwitCoins are in my pigggy bank. The real problem is, my pigggy bank is at home.”

  “So let’s go!”

  He grimaced.

  “What? How much does it cost to get there?”

  “Oh, getting there is free. Getting out is the problem. And I don’t think you’ll find it a very pleasant place to visit.”

  “We have to risk it,” Emily said, then looked at the clock. “Four thirty. My mom will be home in an hour.”

  “Emily,” said Angela, “what if it takes you longer? Or what if you go, and it’s fast, but time moves differently in those other places? That’s what the user’s manual said. What if you’re gone for a long time? Your parents will freak.”

  “You’re right,” said Emily. “It could be a day, or a week, or who knows how long!” She grabbed the Stone again and furrowed her brow in concentration, focusing her intention on How do I keep people from knowing that Dougie and I are gone?

  A minute later she gasped. “It’s me!”

  “What?” said Angela.

  “I’m waving at myself!” said Emily. And she was. Or at least, a miniature icon of herself was waving at her. Gorgo leaned over and looked.

  “i-I?” he said. “That’s what the apth is called?”

  “Aye-aye?” said Angela.

  “i-I, like the letters,” corrected Emily. “It says it stands for ‘imitation-I.’ Hold on. Let me read the scroll. ‘Looking to step out for a bit but can’t get away? Why not leave yourself at home when you leave home?’”

  She quickly read the instructions to Gorgo and Angela. First, it said, build life-size mud statues of up to three people . . .

  “That’s a lot of mud,” said Gorgo.

  “Yes. Where am I going to get that much?”