Last Playground

by Geoff North

  “It happened decades ago,” Paris offered softly.

  “Makes sense. I kinda wondered why he stopped visiting.” Buddy rolled up smoothly onto his four paws, looking more like the bear he really was. “In that case, we’ll have to set out right away. We may have a lot of toys to look through.”

  Bertha jumped up. “We don’t have time to reminisce through a bunch of children’s playthings. We have to find a way back to the others…we have to find Brinn!”

  Buddy ignored her and started towards a dark opening in one of the ice walls. “Come on, this will take us deeper into the caves.”

  Esme helped Paris up, shrugging off the remaining blankets into a heap at their feet.

  Selma remained sitting. “Bertha’s right. We don’t want to follow you anywhere. Just help us figure a way back to our friends.”

  Buddy paused halfway through the six-foot-wide crack. “If Neal is dead, then someone else has sent you here for a reason. And there is only one other person from his world that I know capable of doing that. Trust me—the only way out of Artica Land is down through here.”

  The bear ambled off into the darkness, his furry bum swaying from side to side. “Watch your step,” he called back. “Unless you have claws to dig into the ice, it can get pretty slippery.”

  There was enough light from behind and somewhere ahead to make the walls and ground glisten. Thick sheets of ice and snow on the rock made everything glitter like diamonds on deep, glowing blue. They worked their way down carefully—stepping where Buddy had worked up enough ground for them to safely follow—into the frost-covered depths of the mountain.

  Bertha walked backwards most of the way, her hand gripped tightly around the hilt of her sword, wary of being snuck up on from behind. She didn’t trust talking bears, and the further they descended, the more she believed they were heading into a trap. Esme and Paris whispered back and forth—who was the mysterious person Buddy had mentioned from Neal and Brinn’s world that had knowledge of Artica Land? And why had they brought them here? Selma remained silent, concentrating on the path before them.

  The temperature remained bearable and constant, too cool to melt the ice tunnels around them, and warm enough to tolerate so long as they kept moving. There was a sharp bend to the left where a dull yellow glow was spreading more light along the walls. Buddy jumped down an unusually steep step and disappeared around the corner. Selma went next. Esme helped Paris, and Bertha thumped down the three-foot drop after them, still facing the opposite direction.

  Buddy had paused by a little shelf carved into the wall where the light was coming from. An old catcher’s mitt and a grass-stained baseball with the stitches coming apart were propped up inside. “Neal hated playing catch with his dad. He was always afraid of missing the ball and ending up with a bloody nose.”

  “Is this what you’ve brought us down here to find?” Selma asked doubtfully.

  “Nah, but the time spent with his father meant enough for him to store this stuff away.”

  They passed by more lit alcoves along the way. There were little dinky cars and trucks, the kind made of metal and sprayed with colorful lead paint. Some of their tiny roofs had been squished in, perhaps crushed by real cars and trucks in the farmyard Neal had lived in. Paris plucked one of them out for a better look. Buddy gave him a warning look. “Don’t worry, I’ll put it back.” It was an orange Lamborghini with a clear plastic windshield and a missing wheel on the back. Paris tried spinning the front wheels with his thumb but they refused to move.

  There was a toy rifle that caught Bertha’s attention. It reminded her of Angus. Was the lawman’s weapon styled after this, she wondered?

  Down they went. There were more toys, more balls and cars, more guns that squirted water and fired caps, a small metal box lined on the inside with green velour and filled with marbles.

  Buddy stopped and sat, staring fondly at a stuffed animal.

  “It’s a black bear,” Esme said.

  “It’s me.”

  Paris went on ahead and paused at an icy shelf displaying six wooden blocks. Their faded sides spelled out the letters of the alphabet. “It seems to me that the further down we go, the older the toys get. These ones seem more suited to a kid of four or five years old.”

  “That’s correct,” Buddy said, leaving the little doppelganger behind. He squeezed by Paris and Selma and descended down around another corner. “These are the very bottom levels, and these are the earliest of Neal’s possessions.”

  The others rounded the corner and looked in on the last five displays. To their left was another stuffed animal—a tiger or lion—its fur was so worn and discolored it was hard to tell anymore. Next to it was one of those music boxes that played a scrolling picture as you turned the dial on the side. Selma gave the big red knob a half-turn. The picture no longer moved, but she recognized the song it played: ‘London Bridge is Falling Down.’ To the right was a square-shaped children’s picture book made of thick cardboard. Esme flipped through the first few warped pages. The images were discolored cartoons of trains and planes.

  “What is this?” Bertha asked, pointing at a red plastic object. “It looks as if some creature has been chewing on it.”

  Selma placed the music box back and looked over. “It’s a rattle. The creature was a little boy.”

  A final display had been hewn into the ice where the two walls met and the tunnel ended. This—apparently—was Neal’s first treasured item. A fuzzy white blanket with a pattern of blue stripes and giraffe heads.

  Esme ran her fingers along its soft folds. “Is this what we came here for?”

  Buddy looked momentarily perturbed. He scratched at the ear with a missing piece. “Hmmm…I’d hoped one of you would have recognized a particular toy along the way, you know, something that woulda jived with this adventure you’re on. A lot of these things have special powers. This blanket for example…it’s not very big, but if you wrap it around any part of your body, you’ll create a warmth bubble that will protect you from the harshest of elements.”

  “We could’ve used that an hour ago,” Selma muttered.

  Buddy ignored her. “Shake that plastic rattle hard enough and it will scare any creature away. Doesn’t matter how big and ferocious, they’ll start running when they hear it. Remember the marbles we saw a ways back? If you’re scared of the dark, just throw one against the ground and it will light up a space bigger than this entire mountain.”

  “Do any of the guns work?” Bertha asked.

  “Oh yeah, you don’t wanna play with those bad boys.”

  “None of us knew Neal,” Esme said. She waved a hand through the air, dismissing the child’s mementos. “We’re friends of his niece. This stuff has no meaning to us.”

  “Well, that settles it then,” Buddy said sadly. It seemed as if he knew what they needed all along. “You can only be here for the old spinning thing.”

  Before any of them could ask what that was, Buddy stood back on his hind legs; his head scraped along the roof of ice and he began to roar. The fur on the hide of his neck shook back and forth as he bellowed. The noise he made was deafening. Paris, still suffering from the after effects of almost freezing, covered his ears and watched the bear scream. The bear’s bottom jaw opened so wide he could see the remains of Buddy’s last seal dinner in the sharp teeth and at the back of his long, pink tongue.

  Finally Buddy stopped and dropped back down onto all four paws with a thud.

  “Was that really necessary?” Selma asked.

  “Sorry… It had to be good and loud for Sawdust to hear.” Buddy held a claw up to his black lips. “Now be quiet for a second and listen.”

  A second turned into a half minute. Buddy heard it first and grinned. The others heard something a few moments later—something small padding along the way they’d come.

  “You don’t have to yell so loud, Buddy. The walls may be thick, and I may be old, but my hearing is still fine.” A little penguin rounded the final corner and fl
apped its wings in surprise when it saw the others. “Ack! Kill them, Buddy! Bat their heads off! The mountain’s been breached! Aaack!”

  “It’s okay, Sawdust. I brought them here.”

  The penguin flapped its wings a few more times then stopped to study the new arrivals. His beak pointed to each of them in turn; the gleaming black eyes widened when they settled on Bertha. “I dunno…that one looks like a penguin-killer. What if she sticks that sword into my tummy? What would you do then, Buddy? Who would you have to talk to then, hey?” He rubbed his white belly with a black wing.

  Bertha rolled her eyes at the foot-high creature. “My sword is only used against those more capable of putting up a decent fight.”

  “Ack! How do you know I can’t fight? Maybe I could peck your kneecaps off!” He started towards them and fell off the ledge. He hit face first and rolled over onto his back with another squawk. He drove the pointed tip of one wing into the ice and managed to right himself with more than a little difficulty. “Aww, who am I trying to kid? I ain’t no fighter.”

  Buddy shook his head at the little penguin’s performance. “They aren’t here to fight. I think they’ve been sent for the old spinning thing.”

  As strange as it was meeting a talking bear and penguin, Selma found herself even more puzzled by the bird’s name. “Why are you called Sawdust?”

  Sawdust turned around and pointed his tail up into the air at them. His little frame shook with effort and he farted. A stream of fluffy sawdust shot out and floated down onto the ice at her feet.

  Paris grinned. “Ask a silly question.”

  Sawdust waddled back to the step he’d toppled from. “Someone give me a hand back up.”

  Esme lifted the penguin. His warm little body crinkled inside. She had a feeling Sawdust was filled with unlimited tooting power.

  “Come on then, let’s go to the old spinning thing.”

  They followed Sawdust back up past the displays. He farted as he went, sprinkling the icy floor with a light carpet of wood shavings. No one complained. It made the walking less treacherous. They’d gone almost halfway back when the penguin came to a stop at an opening in the wall that hadn’t been there before. It was a four-foot-high hole with four-foot-thick sides nestled between displays of boxed trading cards and a yellow toy dump truck.

  Esme got down on one knee and peered inside. There was a dull pink light beyond, and she could see the big block of ice that fit the hole sitting off to one side. “Did you pull that thing out by yourself?”

  “The block is set in on a slight incline and latched from behind. All I have to do is release it and the ice slides back out of the way on its own.”

  Paris was about to ask how he intended to push it back into place, but decided he didn’t really want to know. He’d seen enough oddities already during his short visit to Artica Land that were unimaginable to even a wizard. They went through, one after another, on hands and knees. Buddy Black Bear followed last. He had to slide on his belly and kick with his back legs to make it all the way.

  It wasn’t a big chamber they found themselves in, not much larger than one would expect to find inside the rounded single room of an igloo. The pink light came from a toy propped up against the wall.

  “Is that the old spinning thing?” Selma asked.

  Sawdust and Buddy approached it reverently. The bear nestled it gently between his paws and handed it to Esme. “Be careful with it.”

  It looked like an oversized top with its bottom half missing. Paris, Selma, and Bertha gathered around her. There was a push-down handle at the top attached to a small metal pole that ran down the center. It was encased in a dome of cracked clear plastic. At the bottom was a painted-on circular landscape. There was a little town, a bridge, a winding river, a forest, and a farm. On the outer perimeter was a train track with a miniaturized engine and caboose sitting in place.

  “Push down on the handle,” Sawdust whispered. “Gently.”

  Esme pushed down on the red handle—very slowly—and the little train started to move around the track. It made a faint whistling sound as it approached the town and crossed the bridge. She took her hand away and the train started to slow. After a few moments they all became aware that the train wasn’t actually moving. The mechanism inside the toy moved the scenery within the track, making it appear as if the train was chugging throughout the countryside. It came to a halt before the painted trees of the forest.

  “This…thing,” Bertha sneered. “This child’s toy is what you think we’re after?”

  Sawdust reached up and clapped his wings together impatiently. Esme gave it to him, and the penguin placed it down on the ground. “There are four other hidden chambers within the mountain like this one. Each one contains the most powerful toys of them all. Buddy looks after the main displays. My job is to look after these extra-special secret ones.”

  “Where are the other chambers?” Selma asked.

  Sawdust looked to Buddy. They remained quiet.

  “Why is this toy so special?” Paris asked. “How can it possibly help us?”

  Buddy was sitting again; his face, although that of a bear, was easy to read. And Buddy looked dejected. “It’s the ultimate travel terminal. Press down on the handle hard enough and long enough, and that thing will take you anywhere in the universe.”

  “Can it take us to Brinn?” Bertha asked.

  Buddy nodded and his big shoulders slumped even more. “Yes…if you all picture her in your minds, I suppose it will. But I have a feeling that’s not where you’re supposed to go.”

  Bertha knelt down and grabbed the handle.

  Esme stopped her before she could push down on it. “Wait.” Sawdust had crawled up into Buddy’s lap. The bear wrapped an arm gently around the bird’s shoulders and they watched in silence as the four visitors prepared to leave. “Why are you two acting so sad? Don’t you want us to find our friends?”

  “Ack… It isn’t that.”

  “Been a long time since we had friends pop in.” Buddy’s voice was shaking. “We haven’t seen anyone since Neal, and that was almost forty years ago. Are you sure you can’t stay a while longer?”

  Esme shook her head. She patted Sawdust on the beak and rubbed the fur on Buddy’s big arm. “I’m sorry…we can’t.”

  The penguin let out a little fart.

  Buddy sighed. Tears ran from the brown, unblinking eyes, down the sides of his hairy face. “Nah, we didn’t think you could…but you can’t blame a bear for asking.”

  Bertha pushed down on the handle and the landscape started to move in a counter-clockwise direction. The train whistle began to blow and she pressed down again, harder. It streaked across the bridge and whizzed through the town. The different colors merged into a single blur as Bertha worked it. The toy started to glow a brighter pink—it intensified to a blinding white. The little whistle blared and the little engine roared.

  Esme shielded her face from it and took one last look at the two animals sitting against the wall. She could hardly make them out in the brightness—a black beak, two brown eyes.

  The white swallowed them up, and then they were gone.

  She heard someone scream.

  Chapter 19

  The grip around Brinn’s neck loosened. The rat hadn’t intended to choke her to death, but she still feared it might want to do her damage—perhaps nibble the side of her face away with its terribly sharp, yellow teeth. It released her altogether and she stepped away.

  Oscar pulled her back towards the others. Lowe aimed the barrel of his rifle between the animal’s dead black eyes. “One step…one more wiggle out of that tail, and I’ll blow yer goddamn brains all over the brick ceiling.”

  “Ouch.” The rat giggled. “Sounds painful…but then if my brains were no longer attached to the rest of me…I guess I wouldn’t feel a thing. Go ahead. Fire your little gun.” Its voice was low and rumbling—as if it were speaking through a chest filled with phlegm—and there was a dry whistle at the end of each se
ntence, a breathless, pained sound.

  “Don’t shoot him,” Emma warned. “He’s the one that will lead the other rats.”

  Besides its immensity—and possessing the ability to speak—there was something else unusual about the rat. Lowe cocked his head to one side and lowered the rifle. “Step into the light.”

  The rat scuttled forward. He was much quicker than he looked.

  Brinn could now see what had caught the marshal’s attention. “Are you wearing clothes?”

  The rat clawed into the brick walls on either side and pulled himself up into a standing position. He grunted and whistled and wheezed. He was a very fat rat wearing an orange wool sweater. The fabric was torn and frayed, and stretched across his belly was the black pattern of a jack-o-lantern. He was also wearing an obscenely large pair of men’s white underwear. Or at least they had probably been white to begin with—it was hard to tell since the fabric was so threadbare and soiled, there was little white left. And to make his nightmarish appearance even more absurd, the underwear was on backwards, allowing his twelve-foot-long tail access through the trapdoor opening.

  “It gets cold down here,” the rat panted. “And the damp gets to my bones.”

  Brinn felt sickened. “You were a creation of Uncle Neal’s?”

  “Aaaahh…the young one has a descendant. My name is Fredrick Pink. We all can’t be heroes and fearless cowboys, young lady. Terror plays a big role in any child’s developing imagination.” The rat was obviously in discomfort. He scraped his mass back down onto all fours and then he sneezed, spitting up a greasy football-sized wad of hair and other half-digested remains. “Forgive me. My diet now consists mainly of wannasee. It isn’t like the old days when a rat could snatch a fat kitten from the alleys, or sneak up on a juicy bird drinking from the street gutters.”

  The marshal’s rifle had been lowered but his finger was still wrapped around the trigger. “Doesn’t look like yer starving any.”