The creature’s torso was already half visible when Mr. Grimsrud aimed the stun gun. “Halt!” the old man ordered. To Max, his voice and his uniform conveyed an impressive sense of authority. Two, however, began to laugh hysterically.
“You’re no threat to us, you pathetic fool,” Two mocked. “Without your ugly animal friend, we can destroy you.” His laugh sounded like a cross between a rusty hinge being forced open and an animal being slaughtered; the terrible sound made Mr. Grimsrud falter and then take a hesitant step back. “Thursday,” he whispered, finally understanding why he and he alone had walked about unscathed on Wednesdays. It had nothing to do with the plate in his head—it was because of his dog! But Thursday was at home, locked up alone and miserable.
The old soldier recovered quickly from his surprise and lunged bravely at Two with his weapon raised. He pressed the stun gun against Two’s contorted neck and pulled the trigger. A violent bolt of electricity surged around Two, illuminating the tower with a vivid light so white it was almost blue. Two’s mouth opened as if he were shrieking silently, and his back arched while his long fingers twitched and flailed about in a terrible sort of spastic, electric jig. For the briefest of moments it looked as if Dr. Conkle-Smoak was right, and Two could be fought with an electrical shock.
But then Two raised his twitching arms above his head in a monstrous gesture of triumph, and the hateful grin on his face grew wider and even more hideous. Rather than injuring the wednesday, the stun gun had given him more strength and more energy.
“You’re too late to stop it, Max. You. Are. Next.” Max watched helplessly as Two braced his hands against the clock’s cogs and wheels and began to pull himself out of the machinery. He was nearly out. Three was also now fully visible, and he appeared to be using his considerable strength to push Two farther into the open. More and more wednesdays were beginning to emerge every second, their gangly limbs twisted and tangled in the clock gears. The straining, writhing cluster looked like a gruesome, breathing knot—part machine, part monster—with a hundred sinister, silver eyes.
Two had almost completely emerged from the clock’s machinery when Max realized that something was holding him back. Somehow, from deep, deep within the clock, someone’s thin, pale fingers were wrapped around Two’s hairy wrist, pulling him down!
Two slashed viciously at the fingers with the weapon-like claws on his free hand, but he couldn’t seem to free himself from the grip of his unseen captor. The angry creature raised his head and let out an unworldly scream of fury and effort. He managed to make another inch of progress out of the clock, but his assailant held tight and emerged from the cogs right along with him.
It was Ninety-eight!
Never had Max been so happy to see a wednesday. In spite of the chaos and Two’s violent thrashing about, Ninety-eight grinned at Max, his squarish face as cheerful as ever. As Two battled savagely against his grip, Ninety-eight called out above the mayhem: “It’s not too late, Max. You have until the last strike of the clock!”
Three jumped into the fray, pummeling Ninety-eight viciously, and the smaller creature disappeared from view. Suddenly, the mass of wednesdays shrieked collectively as Mr. Grimsrud lunged at them in a surprise attack with a crowbar that he had found lying in a corner of the clock tower. Two easily thwarted his assault with barely a glance, though, and the old man went tumbling.
Max froze in place. He couldn’t flee or even hide, since he knew that if he let go of the clock, it would resume striking and seal his fate. He would be a wednesday—forever. He watched helplessly as Mr. Grimsrud crumpled to the ground. Max felt the will to fight draining out of him. It’s over, he thought. He began to release his grip on the clock’s strike wheel when suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he detected a blur of motion.
At the precise moment that Mr. Grimsrud’s body hit the wooden floor of the clock tower’s upper level, a small streak appeared, seemingly from out of nowhere.
Thursday! Max had never thought he could be so happy to see the ugly dog, who had somehow managed to escape from the house to follow his beloved master.
The dog’s small size and sickly appearance proved to be quite misleading. He attacked Two with the strength and viciousness of an entire army of guard dogs. Growling fiercely, he lunged and sank his crooked teeth enthusiastically into Two’s shoulder.
Two shrieked and tried desperately to pull the dog off. But Thursday’s jaws were as strong as steel, and Two’s efforts only succeeded in allowing the dog to get a firmer grip.
It was almost enough.
Almost.
Even in his obvious agony, Two continued to climb out of the clock. Thursday thrashed and tore, but Two kept climbing. The creature was unstoppable.
Max glanced out the window of the clock tower in a panic, wishing now that his friends were by his side. They were far below and couldn’t see what was happening, but they could still help.
“Now!” Max cried at the top of his lungs, hoping, frantically hoping that his friends would hear him and, against all odds, that the catapult would work.
In response, a small object flew in at tremendous speed, narrowly missing Max’s head.
THUD.
Two shrieked so loudly and with such rage that Max longed to cover his ears. The whole tower shook with the noise, and it felt as if the sound would tear him apart from the inside out. He maintained his grip on the clock gears, though.
Another object whizzed by Max’s nose.
“Duck, Max!” a voice yelled out from below at the same instant as Max heard another wonderfully, beautifully solid THUD.
He looked out the window again and his heart soared as he saw what was happening below.
Dr. Conkle-Smoak and Noah were launching magnets with the catapult. Any other kind of projectile probably would have backfired. But—magnets! The magnets came soaring into the clock tower as his brilliant friends launched one after the other.
And either their aim was impossibly good or else the magnets were drawn naturally to Two, because both shots so far had been direct hits. Max ducked just in time for a third magnet to whiz by.
THUD.
Another direct hit, this time to Three.
The magnets were working! They actually seemed to be driving the wednesdays backward.
Two, who already looked dazed, stumbled as Three panicked and fled back into the clock.
Thursday watched this happen, sneering in a most un-doglike manner. Evidently, he smelled wednesday weakness.
The small dog attacked again with such viciousness that Two seemed to literally shrink back into the clock gears, trying to escape the onslaught.
Two’s silver eyes turned black with pain as the dog bit him again and again, and he was no longer pulling himself out of the clock’s machinery. In fact, Max realized that the wednesdays were fleeing with such haste that the gears were now actually turning in reverse as the creatures rushed back into the depths of the clock. The clock’s hands weren’t moving backward, though. The only thing that seemed to be moving was the main gear shaft, which was slowly sucking Two, along with the rest of the wednesdays, back into wherever—or whenever—it was they had come from.
“How does it feel?” Max couldn’t help but shout out at Two, who continued to hiss at him as he struggled. “How do you like it when someone else controls your fate? Now you know how One felt when you banished her.”
The other creatures began to fade away gracefully as the clock gears pulled the still-shrieking Two steadily down until only his shoulders and head were visible. Max expected Thursday to loosen his grip on the wednesday, but the dog’s fury and loyalty apparently outweighed his sense of self-preservation, and he never let go, not even as he was being dragged into the clock’s gears himself.
Just before Two’s terrible screams faded away completely, Max heard several other voices floating upward from deep within the retreating green fog:
“Goodbye, Max.”
“Thank you.”
The voic
es were so faint that he couldn’t really be sure who had spoken. Nevertheless, Max felt certain it was Ninety-eight and Ninety-nine bidding their farewells. “Go in peace, friends,” Max whispered.
• • •
The clock tower was eerily silent.
Max wanted to run to Mr. Grimsrud, who was still lying unconscious in the corner of the tower, but he knew he had to maintain his grip on the clock’s strike wheel for a few more minutes just to be sure. Get up, he silently willed the old man. Get up!
He didn’t know how long it had been; he had lost all track of time. Every second seemed to last an eternity, but once he felt that at least five minutes had surely passed, he let go of the strike wheel and rushed over to the crumpled figure.
GONG! GONG! The clock hammered out the remaining ten strikes as soon as Max let go. The clock’s face read midnight, but by Max’s calculations, it was actually 12:05. Let it be long enough, he pleaded silently. Let the door be closed.
Mr. Grimsrud’s eyes fluttered open as Max knelt down, and the old man waved him away irritably. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Can’t an old man be left in peace to take a little nap now and then?” He pulled himself to his feet stiffly, but seemed no worse for the wear.
They both looked around the clock tower, wide-eyed. The clock had finished its strikes, and no more wednesdays had appeared. Had it worked?
“Hey, what’s happening up there?” Noah’s voice floated up from where he waited outside. “Is everyone all right?”
Max poked his head out the clockface and flashed a thumbs-up. The group below cheered loudly.
As Max helped Mr. Grimsrud make his way slowly down the spiral staircase, he described what Thursday had done. “I’m really very sorry about your dog,” Max said solemnly.
The old soldier was quiet for a moment. “It’s all right,” he said finally, blinking back tears. “It’s what he would have wanted. He finally got his wednesday.”
n the village square, just below the silent clock, stood five friends, old and new.
At first, none of them could speak.
Max couldn’t stop trembling. His hand was cut badly from the clock, and he found that he didn’t have the words to describe what had happened in the tower.
Noah stood frozen, dumbstruck, with his mouth half open.
Gemma’s camera hung uselessly at her side.
Dr. Conkle-Smoak scratched his head and pulled at his ears, looking quizzically at Max, but asking nothing.
A single, solitary tear coursed down Mr. Grimsrud’s wrinkled face.
Finally, Max found his voice. “Am I …,” he began in a croak. “Am I … me?”
His friends looked at him, seeming quite unsure themselves.
“I think so,” whispered Gemma.
“I know so,” said Noah in a voice quiet and confident. “Don’t ask me how, but I can tell.”
Dr. Conkle-Smoak nodded. “Yes, yes, I believe he’s right. I believe you’re you, though I can’t prove it just yet.”
Mr. Grimsrud knocked sadly on his head.
Max hesitated, not knowing how the group would respond to his next request. “This might seem strange, but I feel as if we should, I don’t know, say a few words or something?”
Gemma agreed. “Yes, let’s.”
And so, in turn, each of them spoke a few quiet words.
Max simply thanked each of his friends by name, ending with those who couldn’t hear. “Thank you, Ninety-eight, and thank you, Ninety-nine. For your friendship, your wisdom, and your sacrifice. We won’t forget you. And thank you, Thursday, of course. You were braver than all of us combined.”
Dr. Conkle-Smoak mumbled and cleared his throat. “Amazing. Simply amazing,” he finally said, and left it at that.
Gemma was next. “I … I don’t know that I have the words. There are so many mysteries. So many questions. I started off just chasing a story, but it turns out that some things are more important.” She shook her head and then looked straight at Max. “I’m just glad you’re here. I’m glad you’re all right.” She leaned over and gave Max a quick kiss on the cheek, causing both of them to blush slightly.
Noah kept it simple. “Goodbye forever, wednesdays. And welcome back, Max.” He glanced protectively at his friend.
Mr. Grimsrud snuffled and wiped roughly at his eyes before he used his turn to say goodbye to Thursday. “You were the best friend a man could have,” he said softly. “I’ll miss you, little guy.”
And then they all stood silently, under the watchful moon, listening to the silence.
• • •
Max crept into his tent in the backyard. After retrieving the goodbye letter that he had left for his parents and ripping it into tiny pieces, he tiptoed into the house and fell soundly asleep in his own bed.
He ran straight for the mirror when he woke up the next morning. Just as he had hoped, his old pants once again fit him perfectly, and his eyes had almost gone back to their original shade of light brown. I’m me again. He smiled into his reflection.
He hesitantly entered the kitchen, where his parents were trying to feed mashed-up waffles to baby Leland. They looked startled to see him, and his father quickly moved the syrup bottle out of reach before anything unlucky could happen to it. None of them said a word, but Max and his parents each seemed to be holding their breath.
It was baby Leland who spoke first. “Mass,” he said cheerfully. Max waited, needing to hear it one more time before he could truly believe it. “Mass!” Leland shouted in his burbly baby voice. He flung a fistful of waffle paste at Max’s head to emphasize his point.
Max! He was saying Max! Definitely not Next.
He. Was. Max.
He and his parents all let out their breath in three separate, relieved whooshes, and Max ruffled his baby brother’s hair affectionately. “Waffle, Maxwell?” his mother asked, still sounding slightly nervous, but smiling nonetheless.
Max grinned as he pulled up a chair next to baby Leland and dug happily into a wonderfully accident-free breakfast.
ourists flocked from near and far to attend the Mount Tibidabo Wednesday Fair. The weekly event had become quite the attraction, with its live music, food stalls, and midday parade, complete with special daytime fireworks. Mr. Fife’s woodwork shop still sold plenty of carved butterflies, but his more recent creations were far more popular: elaborately carved wooden figures that looked sort of like young boys, but with exaggerated limbs, funny egg-shaped torsos, and large, square heads. The eyes were crafted from small bits of mirror that reflected the image of whoever held the wooden figure. Mothers tended to find them a bit creepy, but children adored them, and Mr. Fife sold staggering numbers of the wooden dolls.
Visitors to the village were immediately struck by the charming, one could even say unnaturally perfect, setting. But there was one small flaw that occasionally caught the attention of particularly observant tourists. Fortunately, Mayor Swift knew just how to deflect the criticism.
“Mayor, Mr. Mayor,” called one such hawk-eyed tourist, whose family was busily devouring Tibidabo Wednesday Sundaes, a gooey ice cream treat sold by the village confectionery. “Pardon me, Mr. Mayor. Your town’s clock is quite beautiful, but I can’t help but notice that it’s not keeping the correct time. In fact, it is quite inaccurate. It’s at least five minutes slow.” He frowned as if this troubling blemish was somehow ruining his vacation experience.
“Very observant of you.” Mayor Swift smiled with a practiced manner. “You’ve just stumbled onto one of our village’s claims to fame. Welcome to what we like to call Tibidabo Time. It’s our own little local time zone.”
The mayor pointed to a nearby craft stall that was selling T-shirts and coffee mugs emblazoned with a logo that read HAVE A GREAT TIBIDABO TIME, with a winking, silver-eyed smiley face underneath. The mayor exchanged a knowing glance with the T-shirt seller as the tourist gestured to indicate that he’d like to buy some of the souvenir items.
“Clever marketing gimmick,” said the tourist,
satisfied with the explanation.
The village’s Wednesday Bagpipe Brigade began to play, and the mayor wandered off to ensure that the rest of the day, like all Wednesdays now in the village, was nothing short of perfect.
And the lovely little town was perfect—at least as far as tourists were concerned. Many of them left only reluctantly as the sun set and their children began to yawn and fuss. “You really should open an inn here. Your town needs a hotel,” the visitors often commented, even as the villagers subtly steered them back into their cars and buses, helpfully pointing out the quickest route back to the city below. Ignoring the well-intentioned suggestions, the villagers just nodded and waved farewell, never mentioning that an inn of any sort would be a disastrous idea.
An inn, you see, would mean that outsiders could stay the night.
And to stay the night in the lovely, otherwise perfect little town, halfway up the slope of Mount Tibidabo, would be to hear the clock strike midnight.
And every night at the stroke of midnight, the clock’s toll was accompanied by an ominous chorus of voices. The song they sang, although brief, was both sweet and wicked, and mocking and melancholy, all at the same time. Soft and threatening, the voices sang out:
Wednesdays come and wednesdays go,
But we know something you don’t know.…
And each night at that same moment, the villagers shivered a little in their beds, or tiptoed downstairs to double-check the locks on the doors. It really was a perfect little town, they told themselves, even as they glanced about nervously.
And it was nearly perfect.
Nearly.
JULIE BOURBEAU has lived a life that is probably more adventurous than necessary. She has jumped out of airplanes, has been swept out to sea, and was married on a Himalayan mountaintop by Tibetan monks. When she grew weary of a lifestyle that required so many vaccinations, she decided to become a writer so that her characters could continue her adventures while she stayed safe and warm. She still travels (just not as far), now in the company of her young son, who, one way or another, inspires all of her tales.
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