Instantly, unexpectedly, he was sucked into the sky.
I know. I know. Sounds like one of those wormholes you have in the school, right? But you have to realize, this wasn’t in the days when beings moved from world to world. I know you see aliens all the time here, travelers who pop by and charm you with descriptions of magical realms. But for Banar, there was only one realm: Mahaloo. So when he was sucked into the sky and he found himself somewhere new, he was thrown a bit off-kilter, to put it lightly.
This new world consisted of rocks. Yep, rocks, that’s about it. A flat plane of rocks with edges that bordered a gray void on every side. There was no one to serve, no one to flee. Definitely no way to get back to Mahaloo. All there was to do was stack.
So that’s what he did. Day after day, he stacked rocks. He started by taking rocks from the edges of the plane and bringing them to the center and stacking them in a circle. Then he stacked circles on the circle, until the stacks became a home, a round tower that strained into the void. When he finally moved enough rocks to uncover what was beneath them, he found water. The water rose over what was left of the plane until a moat surrounded the tower. And like a clogged toilet, the water kept coming, spilling over the edges and into the void, creating a circular waterfall that never dried up. Up went the tower, down went the water, but there was no seeing the bottom of the waterfall. Maybe it had no bottom.
From then on, Banar lived in this world alone, in this tower alone, in a room at the top that was so cold that icicles formed from condensed vapor on the ceiling. There were windows in the room that looked out into the void and down to the waterfall. He still had the bamboo reed and he held it close at all times. The ash still plugged the two openings, keeping Una’s soul locked away. It was all that he had left of his creator. He couldn’t bear to lose it.
Holding it close would never be enough, though. Unplugging the reed, gazing into the sparking liquid, that was the good stuff. That was what he really wanted to do, and the temptation eventually overpowered him. This sort of thing rarely goes well, and now was no exception. As soon as he unplugged the reed, it fell from his hand and bounced on the floor. Some, but not all, of the liquid splashed on his body, and the reed flipped up and out a window.
Down the spiral steps of the tower he ran, and when he reached the bottom, it was too late. The reed was floating in the water at the base of the tower. It was empty.
Misery!
Pain!
Tragedy!
It was all too much to bear. He dove into the pool, hoping he would be swept over the waterfall to his death. Yet as he dove, he noticed a strange reflection. It was not Banar diving into the water. It was someone who looked like the night sky, a creature that was the color of nothing and the color of everything.
It was a being of purpose.
Banar’s head was suddenly full of new thoughts and ideas, of things only Una could have known, including what he was supposed to do next.
“Come out and play,” Banar whispered into the water. “Please come out and play.”
What’s this? Was he crazy? Not in the slightest. Because his whispers did not fall on deaf ears. Quite the opposite. They traveled through the water, over the waterfall, to faraway places. Kids heard his voice, sneaking out from ponds, and creeks, even puddles. Some kids even followed his invitation. Daydreamers we call them, and they made Aquavania what it is. They built worlds. They played inside the worlds. They lived inside the worlds. And when they grew tired of the worlds, when they were through with it all, they called out for Banar. Because like Una, they needed Banar to do what they didn’t have the strength to do.
Bring about an end.
He answered their calls, because that was what he was born to do. But he wasn’t known as Banar anymore. Now he had many names.
CHAPTER 16
“Again, this boy was exactly like any of you,” Charlie finished by saying. “He was kind and, above all, loyal. He was born to serve the ones he loved, so that’s what he did. The choices he made were made out of love and survival. Are there any better reasons than those?”
Kenny was gracious enough to raise his hand, but not patient enough to wait to be called on. “Are you saying that Banar is the Whisper?” he asked.
“Banar was the Whisper,” Charlie said. “The first Whisper. There have been others since. And they have all done what they were born to do, and they’ve all made choices out of love and survival. You might not agree with some of those choices, but you should at least try to understand them, don’t you think?”
Stunned silence. Obviously nobody had heard this story before. And the single question that must have been on everyone’s mind was thankfully posed by the girl made of doll parts. “What happened next?”
Charlie chuckled. “You,” he said. “You happened next. Where do you think you came from? You wouldn’t be here without the Whisper. Because when he called daydreamers to Aquavania, he called your creator. You owe everything to him, because he made it possible for you to exist. And to know that a kid just like any of you can grow up to become the most important person in Aquavania, well … that is an encouraging thought, now isn’t it? It starts with devotion. It is the result of hard choices. It stems from love. The Whisper is love. That’s all there is to it.”
Ten minutes before, this comment might have elicited another round of boos, or at least plenty of sniggers, but Charlie’s story had them all thinking.
Alistair was tempted to run out of the kitchen yelling, He’s a liar! That’s only a part of it, if it’s even true! Even if the Whisper helped create worlds, he’s destroyed them too. But Alistair doubted he would fare well with this crowd. They were all clearly devoted to Charlie—or, more accurately, to the Maestro.
On stage, a janitor shaped like a mop used his wooden arms to push a table and chair into place as Charlie held up a book. “Underneath your seats you’ll all find copies of my latest tome, which the school kindly bought for each student. It’s called Gods of Nowhere, and it contains tales similar to Banar’s. If you all line up in an orderly fashion, I’ll be signing copies.”
* * *
Alistair was the last one in line, behind a kid who was basically a car with headlights for eyes and a shiny grille for teeth. Alistair didn’t have a copy of Gods of Nowhere, but he did have his atlas tucked under his arm. Thanks to the car-boy’s bulk, Alistair was hidden, at least for the time being, and he was pretty sure Charlie hadn’t spotted him yet.
The line moved slowly. Presumably, kids were stopping to chat with Charlie as he graced them with his signature. Giggles coursed through the crowd. Legs twitched and fingers tapped on the covers of books. Even after they had signed copies in hand, most of the kids stuck around, huddled throughout the cafetorium, basking in the moment.
When Alistair finally reached the front, he could hardly control his body. A gagging reflex seemed to command his every muscle. The car-boy beeped, executed a perfect three-point turn, and spun out in excitement. Alistair was standing alone on the stage, face-to-face with his old friend.
Charlie squinted and said, “Well, well, well. Looks like we’ve come to the end of the—”
And Alistair vomited. Sparkling bits of meat splashed across the linoleum stage, forming a rancid constellation.
“Not the sort of finale I was expecting,” Charlie said.
“Where … is … she?” Alistair asked as he wiped his mouth and stumbled forward.
“Get it together, buddy. People are watching.” Charlie leaned forward and placed a hand on Alistair’s chest. Alistair’s instinct was to recoil, and recoil he did. But as he did, Charlie snatched the atlas from him.
“Where is she?” Alistair said, with more confidence this time. Losing the book meant nothing compared to losing her.
In response, Charlie smiled, opened the atlas, and put his fountain pen on it like he was signing another copy of Gods of Nowhere. “To whom should I make this out?” he asked.
“I found you,” Alistair said. “I
knew I would. Now it’s over. Tell me where she is.”
“Long name. Not sure I know how to spell it right, but I’ll give it my best shot,” Charlie said as he finished the inscription and handed the atlas back to Alistair. “I hope you enjoy reading this.”
There was something weird about Charlie’s skin. It was loose, flabby, like a peach a day past ripe. This was Charlie, and yet it wasn’t. Could he be a cipher like Kyle? An imposter? What Alistair would have given for a pair of those X-ray specs. The Maestro sure sounded like Charlie, but what did that prove?
The two boys locked eyes, a good old-fashioned stare-down, until the janitor nudged Alistair out of the way for a moment, sidling in to mop up the vomit, his weathered scowl saying all that needed to be said. Seizing the opportunity, Charlie stood and slithered into the crowd. The kids immediately peppered him with questions, and there was absolutely no way for Alistair to break through their motley ranks.
“I’m afraid I must be leaving, my friends,” Charlie announced as he walked backward toward the exit, though he wasn’t looking at the clingy, yappy kids. He was looking at Alistair’s atlas. He nodded insistently.
Alistair opened it to the cover page. The inscription read: You’re It.
Again, the Weeble girl was lagging behind, so Alistair picked her brain. “Where are they going?” he asked.
She looked at him as if he were the world’s biggest dolt. “The toilet,” she said.
1987
The bathroom by the gym, where the lights hummed and flickered yellow, was usually empty right after the final bell. There was never gym class past sixth period, and if you wanted to participate in illicit activities—selling candy, sharing dirty magazines—the last stall at three p.m. was always a good place. Kids in the know referred to it as the Dungeon.
It was the third week of fifth grade—a Friday afternoon—and Alistair swung his backpack over his shoulder, closed his locker, and prepared to call it a day when he learned of the latest goings-on in the Dungeon. Trevor Weeks, practically dancing as he moved down the hallway, said, “They got Captain Catpoop in there! Atomic wedgies. Chocolate swirlies. The whole shebang!”
The hallway presented two roads for Alistair. One led outside, to where Keri was waiting to walk home. The other led to the gym, to the bathroom, to the Dungeon.
He hesitated, but he chose.
* * *
Ken Wagner, Dan Fritz, and Ryan Chen had Charlie cornered, though it appeared they hadn’t done anything to him yet. As Alistair and Trevor burst through the door, they found the trio cracking their knuckles and pounding their fists in their hands, like tough guys in some old movie. Charlie was sitting on the edge of the counter, next to the far sink where the hot water never worked.
“Reinforcements,” Charlie remarked with a smile. “But for which side?”
“I’m Switzerland, dudes,” Trevor said, showing everyone his empty hands.
Dan stopped cracking his knuckles—a boy like him couldn’t be expected to do two things at once—and asked, “Switzerwhat?”
“Neutral,” Charlie explained. “So what about you, Alistair? You gonna help me fight these guys?”
Alistair paused, checked the mirror to spy intentions in eyes. These guys were jerks, no doubt about it, but he couldn’t really believe they would beat Charlie to a pulp. And yet he didn’t want to antagonize them any further.
“What did he do?” Alistair asked.
“Not your concern, Cleary,” Ryan said. “We don’t have a problem with you.”
“Well then, what’s your problem with him?” Alistair asked.
“His ugly face,” Dan said.
“Nice,” Trevor said, licking his finger and tagging the air, as if keeping score.
“Here’s the thing, fellas,” Charlie said, rocking his feet back and forth like this was no big thing. “Smash my face in and it will become uglier. Then you’ll have an even bigger problem with it and you’ll have to smash it again. It’s a vicious circle, my friends.”
Ken shook his head and curled his lip up. “That’s my problem with you. Your smart ass.”
“Actually, my ass is quite dumb,” Charlie said. “It’s always talking out of turn and making a big stink.” He lifted a knee like he was about to let loose, furrowed his brow, and then shook his head. “Sorry, false alarm.”
Trevor cracked up, licked his fingers again, and tagged two points in the air for Charlie. Dan sneered and pounded his fist in his palm again. “We doin’ this or what?”
Ryan resumed some knuckle-cracking, but there was little left to crack, so he started pulling at his fingers, trying to elicit popping sounds. “You know what my vote is,” he said.
Alistair was watching most of this in the mirror—chin down, eyes up—but he still couldn’t escape Charlie’s gaze. Charlie was sneaking him a signal through the reflection, a message opposite of his bold words. A wrinkle in his brow. A twist in his mouth. Help. Please help.
“Excuse me,” Alistair said, in a soft, polite tone. And he headed straight for the door.
Gasping as he stepped into the hallway, he searched for witnesses. Deserted. There was a fire alarm mounted on the wall, and he went over and opened its panel. The red lever behind the panel almost seemed as though it was vibrating, begging him to pull it. He placed his fingertips on it.
“Fire alarms spray ink on whoever sets them off,” Charlie had told him once. “That way people don’t pull them as a prank.”
His hand shaking, Alistair withdrew. This wasn’t a prank, but it wasn’t a fire either. Leaving the panel open, he hurried down the hall. His sneakers squeaked on the faux-marble floor, the only sound, echoing like a baby’s whimper in a dark hospital.
Keri might still be waiting for me. I’ll go home. Pretend I was never there.
Around the corner, a janitor pushed an industrial broom that collected scraps of paper and dust balls as big as fists. The kids called him Lenny, but no one seemed to know if that was actually his name. It sounded like a janitor’s name, and he never objected to it. He hardly spoke at all. He communicated in nods, salutes, and sighs.
“There’s a toilet … by the gym … over … water over the rim … wasn’t me,” Alistair called out as he passed Lenny, not slowing down at all.
Lenny sighed.
* * *
The phone rang at 8:27. Alistair’s parents had a rule: no calls after eight thirty. Charlie was well aware of this rule.
“It’s you-know-who,” Keri said, handing Alistair the phone.
Alistair’s dad didn’t turn away from the TV, but tapped his watch with a finger.
“I get it,” Alistair said, moving out of the room with the mouthpiece pressed to his chest. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”
When he was out of earshot of his family, Alistair said, “Charlie, I’m—”
“Can you sneak out tonight? Meet me at the clubhouse around eleven?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never snuck out. My parents aren’t always asleep by then.”
“Twelve, then. Climb out your window. I’ll be waiting for you.”
Click.
* * *
A line of cats moved like a single enormous snake, weaving through the grass soundlessly and into the open door of the clubhouse. Kyle didn’t give a damn about the clubhouse anymore. “Have fun with it,” he had told Charlie a year before, and that “fun” had amounted to Charlie turning it into a hotel for stray cats.
A cat slid through his legs as Charlie stepped through the clubhouse door and out into his backyard. Alistair kept his distance—he hated that clubhouse—but he could tell that Charlie was carrying something.
“We’re swapping,” Charlie said as he tossed a balled-up object.
It struck Alistair in the chest, but it didn’t hurt. It was soft. It fell into the grass at Alistair’s feet. He bent over and picked it up. A T-shirt.
There were bloodstains on the collar, a small rip in the short sleeve. Charlie stepped forward. His bare chest, rippling w
ith small fatty folds, was drenched in moonlight. “Now give me yours,” he said.
Alistair was wearing a black rugby jersey. It was expensive—at least that’s what he’d been told—and had a hand-stitched fern on the left breast. “It’s … this is … from my uncle,” Alistair explained. “He was all the way in New Zealand when he got it.”
Charlie blew a little raspberry, which must have stung a bit because his lip was red and swollen, and then he reached out a hand and made a come here gesture with his index and middle fingers.
Alistair peeled off the jersey.
“Lenny yelled ‘What in tarnation?’ when he came in and found those guys busting me up,” Charlie said with a little laugh. “What in tarnation! Janitor hardly ever speaks, and those are the words he decides to use. I thought only the Looney Tunes talked like that.”
Alistair tossed him the jersey. “I sent him in, you know. It’s all I could think to do.”
“I know,” Charlie said, catching it and pressing it to his chest. “That’s why we’re doing the swap. You think this jersey is big money? That T-shirt I gave you is a limited edition. It’s worth even more now because of the blood. You’re being rewarded.”
Closer inspection revealed that it was a shirt Charlie had made himself, using iron-on decals. White letters on green fabric read POPULAR. Charlie had worn it so much that Alistair no longer saw the joke in it. Now, bloodstained and ripped, it seemed more sad than funny.
“They call me Captain Catpoop,” Charlie said as he pulled the rugby over his head.
“I know,” Alistair said, trying on his new shirt, which was at least a size too big.
“I’m going to make a T-shirt with ‘Captain Catpoop’ written on it. If that’s what the people want, then that’s what they’ll get.”
The wind rustled leaves on the trees that edged the swamp—a soft, sarcastic round of applause. Alistair hugged himself to stay warm. “I’m so sorry,” he said.
Charlie bent over and picked up a cat that was sneaking past. Its coat was ratty and its eyes glowed a ghostly yellow, but as soon as Charlie had it in his arms, it unleashed a delicate purr. “Nothing to be sorry about. Like I said. That’s why you get the shirt. You sent in Lenny and he sent the guys scattering. In ten years, that shirt will be a collector’s item, something to frame.”
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