Leven Thumps: The Complete Series

by Obert Skye

  Winter thought about diving toward the food, but instead she worked her way up onto her feet and dusted off her knees and palms. She touched her sore shoulder and winced. The last thing she could remember was running from Jamoon’s nihils.

  Jamoon smiled. Of course, it wasn’t the kind of smile you would see on a four-year-old in a family portrait; it was more like the kind of smile a wicked darkness would smile after it had successfully destroyed everything good that had ever existed. Jamoon was still wearing his robe, and the dream he had stepped into Morfit with was of a body builder. His left side was ripped and strong. Most rants would never leave Morfit if they were lucky enough to get such a useful left half. The body-builder side matched some of the natural strength and size Jamoon’s right side enjoyed. The bottom of Jamoon’s robe billowed.

  “Do you not recognize this room?” Jamoon asked tauntingly.

  Before Winter could answer there was a knock on the door and a cog entered, carrying a small board with a dream film over it. The blue-handed cog showed the board to Jamoon.

  Winter looked around again. The room was familiar to her. She tried to force her mind to remember.

  Jamoon handed the board back to the cog.

  “Well,” Jamoon said, “there is still some uncertainty, but the Sochemists feel that your beloved Geth is dead.”

  Winter’s stomach lurched.

  “They are still debating it,” Jamoon went on. “But in time, they will come to an agreement.”

  “He can’t be dead,” Winter insisted.

  “I can bench-press my own weight,” the body-building side of Jamoon bragged.

  Winter stayed quiet.

  “Send the locusts,” Jamoon instructed the cog, ignoring his other half. “Transmit a message from the Sochemists. Let all of Foo know we have Winter. That should bring the boy here.”

  “As you wish,” the cog said, backing out of the room and closing the door behind him.

  “Geth is not dead,” Winter asserted.

  “Perhaps,” Jamoon said. “The Sochemists will sort it out.”

  “Just because they say it doesn’t make it so.”

  “You have no understanding of the politics of Morfit.”

  Winter pictured Geth in her mind. She thought she could feel he still lived. But her head was so full of dark and depressing thoughts she wasn’t sure if it was a false hope.

  “You helped create this room,” Jamoon said, bringing the subject back to where it had been before the cog had entered. “You thought you were helping Foo, when in reality you were forwarding Sabine’s plan. Now look at you: alone, and possessing the blessed ability to die.”

  Winter closed her green eyes. Her hands were trembling. She let her fear race through the open ceiling and out into the night air, trying to picture Leven wherever he was.

  “You really don’t remember any of this, do you?” Jamoon laughed wickedly.

  “I remember,” Winter lied, not wanting to give Jamoon the satisfaction of being right.

  “I don’t believe you do.”

  Winter was silent.

  “If you do, then where’s the key?” he demanded.

  Winter had absolutely no idea what Jamoon was talking about, but she decided to stick with lying.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know,” she snapped, raising her green eyes to meet Jamoon’s single exposed one.

  “Toy with us and Leven dies,” Jamoon said. “Of course, he will die anyway. The Lore Coil has made one thing perfectly clear: Leven is mortal. There are many who will smile at his death.”

  Winter couldn’t allow such talk. She thought of Jamoon’s right side as ice. Nothing happened. She focused her green eyes. Still nothing.

  Jamoon laughed. “Surprised? Your gift is useless in this room. The Want himself has touched these walls. With his touch he took away the ability for any who stand in here to exercise their gifts. Crazy fool.”

  Winter could feel the panic rising in her throat like sour mush. Fear shot off her and into the air. All Winter could think of was Leven.

  “No gift and the ability to die.” Jamoon stepped closer. “You betrayed us once before. Now you will pay for it.”

  Jamoon seized Winter by the wrists.

  “Somebody spot me,” his left side demanded.

  Jamoon twisted Winter and threw her to the ground like wet garbage. The nihils beneath his robe poured out. Winter screamed, and once again her fear shot off from her, through the window, and into the night air.

  “I am only letting you live so in case Geth does still exist I can use you as a bargaining chip,” Jamoon sneered. “But, I don’t have to keep you alive and well—how about just alive, and how about just barely?”

  The nihils fluttered and screamed, darting around the room like black pulses of light.

  Winter, still on the ground, crawled to get away. She was too slow, and there was nowhere to go. The nihils flowed beneath her like water and lifted her into the air as Jamoon stepped closer. His right eye burned with rage.

  Another bolt of fear shot off of Winter and out through the window. Leven, Winter pleaded, her heart trembling.

  Leven.

  Chapter Thirty

  Egyptian Silk

  Dennis looked at himself in the hotel mirror. He moved the disposable razor over his scalp, removing the last bit of hair from his head. He was ready to be someone else. He toweled off the remaining bits of shaving cream and took another good look at himself. He was surprised to see himself smiling. It made sense, seeing how he had never been happier. He had also never been more sinister. As a general rule, sinisterism is usually not that happy a thing, but Dennis was so new to it, he couldn’t properly interpret his feelings. He dried off the top of his bald head and looked back at Sabine.

  Sabine was sprawled out on the second bed in the hotel, looking like a ghostly black towel. All the lights were turned off, aside from the small one in the bathroom. Sabine preferred the dark. Dennis had worn him in as a robe, and now Sabine was trying to feel sinister despite the elegant, thousand-thread-count sheets he was lying on. Luckily for every wicked cause he was a part of, he was perfectly sinister, whether sleeping on satin or in soil.

  Dennis had no answers as to what his future held, but he and Sabine felt that heading toward the spot where the gateway had been located was as good a move as any. With Dennis’s help it might be possible to build a new and better gateway. Dennis picked up the fanny pack and pulled out the crippled body of Ezra. He looked at what he now saw as the pathetic little tyrant and wondered where he would be now if he had ordered a piece of pizza instead of the sandwich Ezra had been in.

  “Need to look at what you did?” Ezra seethed, his speech weak and airy. “Broke a defenseless toothpick in half.”

  Dennis pinched Ezra tightly. There was still some feeling of anger and hatred in the sliver of wood, but Dennis knew that most of the passionate hatred the toothpick had once housed had been transferred to himself.

  “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” Ezra coughed weakly. “You don’t have the stomach. You gutless—”

  Dennis didn’t let him finish. He jammed Ezra back into the fanny pack and zipped it up.

  “No stomach?” Dennis said to himself. “We’ll see.”

  He splashed water on his face and approached Sabine, who was still sprawled out on the bed.

  “I want to know what Foo is,” Dennis said.

  “Why?” Sabine hissed from his small mouth at his far corner.

  “How can I build a gateway without knowing where it leads to?”

  “Foo is paradise,” Sabine seethed. “A paradise that is being withheld from people like you.”

  “That doesn’t seem fair,” Dennis said, trying to sound bold. “And this gateway?”

  “It will be the hope of millions,” Sabine lied. “You will be a hero to millions.”

  Dennis liked that.

  “And what about this Geth that Ezra spoke about?”

  Sabine hissed and then
breathed in very slowly. “Don’t think of Geth,” he demanded. “He will be dead before you get there. My other half will see to that.”

  “And that’s a good thing?” Dennis asked.

  “That’s a perfect thing,” Sabine hissed. “One less wall to knock down before we can have it all.”

  Dennis liked that too.

  Dennis flicked off the bathroom light and climbed into the other bed. They had an early flight to catch. Dennis slept soundly in his white shirt with the bank sticker and his wrinkle-proof pants—getting ready for whatever lay ahead.

  ii

  Tim didn’t understand a word of German. People wearing felt hats and drab clothes just stared at him as he walked down the street, trying to figure out where he was. He had taken a taxi from the airport, but the cabbie had dropped him off at the wrong spot, insisting that he was where he had asked to be.

  Tim was confused. He needed the train station, but all he could see were houses and a few small businesses. He stepped into a tiny delicatessen and bought a bit of cheese and bread with some of the money he had exchanged at the airport.

  “Excuse me,” Tim tried. “Train station?”

  The owner of the shop looked at him as if he had just let a pack of monkeys loose in his store.

  “Trains?” Tim said again.

  The owner wiped his hands on his apron and pointed to the west. “You go,” he insisted.

  Tim couldn’t tell if he was being instructed to leave or given directions.

  “Thank you,” Tim said, backing out. “Guten Tag,” he added, trying to be gracious.

  The German shopkeeper just shook his head.

  Tim walked down the street in the direction he had been pointed. Germany was so green and beautiful, with honest-looking people. He couldn’t believe he was here. If someone had asked him two weeks before where he would be today, he never would have guessed.

  Tim was happy collecting trash. Now here he was halfway across the world, working off a hunch to find Winter and a boy named Leven. As with the trash he collected, he couldn’t wait to figure out the story behind what remained.

  After walking two miles, Tim found the train station. He walked in and looked around as if the answer might be right there.

  It wasn’t.

  Instead, there were rows of wooden benches in the middle of the depot and people walking back and forth trying to catch trains that would take them someplace they would stay until they went someplace else.

  Tim walked through the crowd and up to the ticket window. Behind the glass sat a skinny woman with braided hair and crooked white teeth. She smiled, which took Tim by surprise.

  “Do you speak English?” Tim asked, smiling back.

  “A bit,” she said, still smiling.

  “I read about the situation that happened here a couple of days ago,” he tried. “People flying around.” Tim waved his arms in the air as if to demonstrate.

  Her smile left.

  “Were you here?” he asked.

  “No,” she said solemnly. “But Herr Wondra.” She pointed to a ticket window four glass panels down. “He was here.”

  “Thanks,” Tim said.

  He slipped four windows down and found himself facing a man with no smile.

  “Do you speak English?” Tim asked.

  “Of course,” he answered curtly.

  “You were here during the incident?” Tim asked. “When people were flying around?”

  Again with the arms.

  The German man sniffed. “I was,” he said sharply. “This is a result,” he added, lifting up his right arm to show off a cast. “I hurt it flying through the ice.”

  “Ice?” Tim asked, the hairs on the back of his neck dancing like a bunch of uncoordinated teenagers.

  “Glass,” the man corrected. “I flew through the glass.”

  “Not ice?” Tim questioned.

  “Some of the glass may have . . . melted,” he finally admitted, looking around as if concerned that others would overhear. “I flew through this glass,” he said confidentially, pointing toward the pane of glass he was behind at the moment. “The glass, it . . . broke, and I fell on my arm. I was scared to be getting up. That I might get

  cut . . .” He paused to see if Tim understood.

  Tim nodded, “Of course.”

  “But it wasn’t glass,” he continued. “There was water everywhere and the glass was melting. I took one day off,” he said shamefacedly.

  “Only one?” Tim said sympathetically.

  The ticket master liked that. “I’ve never missed another day in my life,” he declared proudly.

  “So it was the heater that caused all the mess?” Tim asked.

  “Certainly not,” the man said, sticking out his strong German chin. “No heater could do that.”

  “So what happened?”

  The ticket agent looked as though he were thinking, but he obviously already had the story down. “It began while I was in pursuit of a young American.”

  “Girl or boy?” Tim asked.

  “Girl,” he said, as if proud of his memory. “She was in tears and wanting to travel to Berchtesgaden. I remember, because I have spent many weeks there.”

  “What did she look like?” Tim asked, trying to stay calm.

  “Wild, blonde hair,” he sniffed. “Young. Stubborn, of course.”

  “Of course,” Tim said, his pulse racing. “And this Berchtes-

  gaden . . . ?” he prompted.

  “Proof that God prefers Germany,” the ticket agent said proudly.

  “Did she go there?” Tim asked.

  “How should I know?” the agent said suspiciously. Suddenly he was far less friendly than he had been. “Why all the questions?” he asked.

  “No reason.”

  “Are you traveling somewhere?” the agent asked, switching to a professional tone. “If not, please step aside.”

  “Actually,” Tim said, “I would like a ticket to this Berchtesgaden place.”

  The ticket agent didn’t smile. It was apparent from his eyes that he was suspicious and concerned about all he had said. He straightened himself and brushed back the sides of his hair, as if physically regaining his composure.

  “Your papers, please,” he finally said.

  Tim handed the man his passport, happy to oblige.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Choosing a Path

  Leven wasn’t dreaming—which wasn’t too surprising, seeing as how he was in Foo and dreams there are more common among those who are awake. But, even though he was not dreaming, he was most definitely sleeping. The soft bed of grass he was lying on in front of the turrets’ gatehouse was enjoying his company, and it swayed gently, rocking him as he slumbered. A couple of large mushrooms wandered over to give his head a decent place to rest. A little-known fact of Foo is that all fungi are incredibly friendly and love to be of service when they can.

  If it had not been for the pain in his stomach, Leven couldn’t have been more comfortable. At the moment, he was sleeping face-down on the grass, his forehead resting on the spongy mushrooms.

  Small wits, tattered pieces of old dreams with a bit of life still left in them, watched over Leven. The wits liked to hide in trees, disguised as odd-looking leaves. They would pluck off the large fantrum leaves to make space for themselves in the trees. The plucked leaves from the nearby trees had drifted down and covered Leven in his sleep. He was so camouflaged that when Clover came back looking for him, he didn’t spot him right off. Luckily, Leven gave himself away by his contented snoring.

  Clover leaned over Leven and gently shook him.

  “Leven,” he said softly. “Leven, wake up.”

  Leven barely stirred.

  “Leven,” Clover said casually, “that whisp woman’s in trouble.”

  Leven’s eyes flew open, and he sat up. He looked at Clover, blinking. He shook his head and tried to pull his thoughts together.

  “Janet’s in trouble?” he asked, still confused by sleep.r />
  “Oh, Janet. That’s right,” Clover laughed. “I keep wanting to call her Pam.”

  Leven rubbed his eyes and stood. “Is she in trouble?”

  “Here’s the thing,” Clover said, clearing his throat. “Someone I know wanted to sleep, and so as to not bother you I decided to show Whispy a game I used to play. I never thought anyone would take her.”

  “She’s been taken?” Leven said. “By who?”

  “I don’t know.” Clover tried to cry. When he could see Leven wasn’t buying it, he knocked it off. “They had horns and outdated hair. Oh, and they were dressed in fire.”

  “Fire?” Leven asked.

  “Their skin was burning and they were wailing. Probably because of their hair,” Clover said. “They told Janet to follow them, and she did.”

  Leven was fully awake now. He looked about wildly. “We need to find her. Do you know where they were going?”

  “My guess is to the gorge, or the Guarded Border, or the Lime Sea.”

  Leven put his head in his hands and sighed. “What game were you playing, anyway?” he asked.

  Clover was quiet for a moment. “Rotscotch?” he finally said tentatively.

  “Rotscotch? How do you play that?”

  “I don’t want to bore you with the details,” Clover waved. “Let’s just say it’s really fun and involves decay and jumping.”

  Leven gave Clover a serious look.

  “All right,” Clover sighed. “It wasn’t really so much a game as me wanting her to dig up something for me to eat.”

  “She can’t dig,” Leven pointed out.

  “Tell me about it,” he said. “She was a lousy player. I ended up having to do most of the work. But as I was digging around some trees, I accidentally dug up some things I shouldn’t have—some bad thoughts,” Clover whispered. “Judging by their hair, I’d say they’d been buried there since the early seventies.”

  Thanks to Terry, Leven’s step-guardian, Clover had watched a lot of TV while in Reality. When Leven was sleeping or doing chores, Clover would slip up by Terry and watch whatever was on. Consequently, Clover knew quite a bit about American culture, popular history, and old hairstyles.