Leven Thumps: The Complete Series

by Obert Skye

  “I don’t know, I’m already asleep,” Clover mumbled back.

  “It’s like heaven,” Winter called from across the room. “Except softer.”

  Geth was snoring lightly.

  “He never snored as a toothpick,” Clover complained, switching beds to be one farther away from Geth.

  “He’s probably dreaming about Phoebe,” Leven said groggily.

  “She was pretty,” Clover whispered.

  “I guess she . . .”

  Leven fell asleep mid-sentence. His mind relaxed as thick waves of light rolled through his brain. He could see spots of blue blending with triangles of orange and pink. Leven could see Terry and Addy yelling at him. Addy was wearing her sweats and had a green night masque spread on her face. Leven could see Oklahoma and feel the wind blowing across the prairie and over his arms and face.

  As Leven’s body sunk further into the bed, his dreams became stronger and more vivid. He could see his grandfather the Want and his wrinkled, shriveled-up eyes. He could see Clover clinging to the bottom of his bed, and Winter freezing Brick and Glen, the bullies from his old school. Leven could also see Geth as a tall tree, his branches long and twisting in the blue sky.

  “What do you see?” his old neighbor asked him in his dream. She was an elderly woman wearing a ratty bathrobe and plastic curlers in her hair. In Reality she had never even spoken to Leven. Now, her voice was soothing and full of concern. She touched Leven’s arm.

  “What do you see, Leven?”

  Leven wanted to speak, but he couldn’t move his mouth.

  “Stand up, Leven,” she said. “Come with me.”

  Leven felt himself standing in his sleep, his mind cloudy and confused. He moved across the room, opened the window,

  and, without stopping, crawled out. He dropped ten feet and crashed to the soft ground, still asleep.

  “Get up,” his neighbor prodded kindly.

  Leven stood, his eyes closed and his mind not his own. The sky was windy and the night was cold and black.

  “Leeeeven,” the wind howled.

  Clover dropped from out of the window and onto Leven’s shoulder.

  “What are you doing out here?” Clover asked. “There could be rants.”

  The streets were completely dark and empty. Leven opened his eyes, but he was still fast asleep.

  “Well, maybe there’s none now, but they could come back,” Clover insisted. “Wait a second, are you still sleeping?”

  Leven didn’t answer. Clover waved his hand in front of Leven’s eyes. The glow from Leven’s gold eyes shone against Clover’s tiny hands.

  “Leeeeven,” the soil whispered.

  Leven mechanically patted Clover on the head.

  “You’re sleeping,” Clover deduced.

  The soil whispered again. Leven looked up at Clover.

  “I need to go somewhere,” Leven said foggily.

  “Where?”

  “Far,” Leven slurred. “Fast.”

  “I know how you can get there fast,” Clover said excitedly.

  Leven looked at Clover, his eyes glowing but glazed. Clover took out a long tube with an orange wrapper. The wrapper read Lofty Toffee, and it had a gold star on it that exclaimed, “You’ll feel lighter than air!” On the back of the tube a slogan was printed: “One bite and you’ll take flight.”

  The soil whispered again and in his dream Leven saw his neighbor stick out her hand and wave him closer.

  Leven reached for the candy.

  Clover handed it to him. “You probably should be awake before you eat that stuff. Candy can be tricky enough if you are alert. But of course if you were awake you’d probably say no.”

  Leven was too busy listening to the soil to hear Clover. He opened the tube without looking at it.

  “Stay here,” he told Clover listlessly.

  “No way,” Clover said. “Last time I shirked my job you took a ride in the Devil’s Spiral without me. Besides, you’re sleeping and won’t remember telling me to stay.”

  Leven took a huge handful of the buttery-smelling candy and handed it back to Clover. Clover took a few pieces for himself and then wrapped it back up and put it away. Leven flipped his handful of Lofty Toffee into his mouth and chewed.

  Leven stood there asleep, seeing images in his head and trying to wake up his mind enough to talk to Clover. He could feel his body fizzing and then, like an elevator dropping, he plummeted downward. Before he hit the ground the wind picked up his pieces and blew him up over the homes. He was a million pieces of fluffy toffee being swept up over Foo.

  The sensation was dreamlike and thrilling. Leven couldn’t tell if he was awake or asleep. His arms and legs were snapping and cracking like Pop-Rocks in a wet mouth. He could feel his breath being stolen and then pumped quickly back into his lungs. His vision was similar to that of a fly; he could see hundreds of images in multiple directions. Leven tried to speak, but his mouth was as hollow and silent as a vacuum.

  His body spun farther up and raced through dark clouds, moisture clinging to the tiny bits of him. His body felt empty but his heart felt like a ball being lobbed through the air.

  “Leven.”

  His body followed the voice. He descended, rose up again, and then drifted down above a field of full-grown tavel. He twisted in and out of the tavel stalks and then blew through the opening of a tent and down onto a floor of clean dirt.

  Leven felt his body gel as he fell into a sleeping heap on the cold ground. He lay there silently for a few moments and then began to moan.

  “Leeven,” a voice whispered, interrupting his moaning.

  Leven slowly opened his eyes. He closed them again and slept.

  “Leven.”

  “What?” Leven mumbled, his eyes still closed.

  “Leven.”

  The chilling voice pierced Leven’s soul. He opened his eyes in a panic. His heart suddenly raced and he could feel that something was terribly wrong.

  The smell of buttery toffee filled his nostrils.

  He sat up and looked around. It was pitch-black, but as Leven turned his head, his eyes shone dimly. The room looked empty, and he could feel the cold dirt underneath him.

  “Clover?” he called out.

  There was no answer.

  “Geth? Winter?”

  “They’re not here,” a voice in the dark whispered slowly.

  Every hair on Leven’s neck stood at attention. Leven sat up and scooted backwards.

  “It’s just you and I,” the voice said dryly.

  “Who are you?” Leven asked.

  There was a soft, disturbing laugh. “I believe you know exactly who I am.”

  Leven looked as hard as he could toward the voice. His gold eyes burned brighter and gave the room a faint definition.

  “Who are you?”

  “Don’t insult me,” the voice said.

  “The Dearth?”

  “See, you do know me.”

  “Am I still in the house?” Leven asked.

  “No,” the Dearth replied.

  The soil sizzled and hissed. A short rant entered the tent carrying a small lamp. He placed the lamp down in front of the Dearth and left.

  The Dearth had his back turned and was slumped over. Leven could see the Dearth’s spine and his spindly shoulders. His tarlike skin bubbled in spots. Small bits of hair were growing out of the back of his dark head and there was a long swath of brown fabric wrapped around the Dearth’s waist.

  Leven scanned the room but could see nothing else.

  “Would you like to go back?” the Dearth asked, still facing the opposite direction.

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” Leven said honestly.

  “Yes,” the Dearth said. “You could go back to Reality, or back to Geth.”

  “Either of those would be fine,” Leven said, his heart pounding in his throat.

  “I should thank you—you’ve helped our cause by letting the longing loose,” the Dearth hissed.

  “It wasn�
��t meant to help you,” Leven insisted.

  “Don’t be angry,” the Dearth said. “Someday you’ll come to understand how what we seek is truly the greater good. Had you met up with Sabine before Geth you might very well be fighting for us.”

  “I would never fight with Sabine.”

  “Never’s a long time,” the Dearth said. “You say Sabine is bad, but at the instruction of a soul such as Geth you have killed Sabine, and Jamoon, and now you seek to do me harm.”

  “I fight for Foo,” Leven said, trying to keep his thoughts to himself. “I am a part of this now.”

  “How nice,” the Dearth said.

  “Why am I here?”

  “You give some beings hope,” the Dearth said. “And that just won’t do.”

  “What?”

  “Hope is a poison and I wish to put an end to every bit of it.”

  “How can you say that?”

  The Dearth turned around slowly. The features of his face were prominent. His eyes bubbled and his mouth was a black hole. His forehead looked like a sticky wad of rot with a couple dozen bristly hairs growing out of it. He stuck out his tongue.

  Leven gagged.

  The Dearth’s tongue was a thin, decaying rope of black. He whipped his tongue around and then retracted it slowly, flecks of it dusting off as he did so. He looked closely at Leven.

  “Such strong eyes,” the Dearth gurgled. “Such strong, bright eyes. And sadly I can see the confidence of Geth in the way you sit. Such a useless breed, the lithens are. Poor Azure has to redeem an entire race.”

  “I would do anything Geth asked,” Leven said boldly. “And your words mean nothing to me.”

  The Dearth’s tongue extended and withdrew. Scaly pieces of tongue drifted down through the air.

  “Why am I here?” Leven demanded again.

  “Well, Leven, I plan to kill you,” the Dearth said calmly.

  “Is that supposed to scare me?”

  “You asked,” the Dearth hissed. “I told you.”

  “How did I get here?”

  “You blew in,” the Dearth answered. “Do you know what I am?”

  “I already answered that.”

  “No,” the Dearth said, breathing strong. “Not my name. Do you know what I am?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “I think you should,” the Dearth said acridly. “You see, I am the life force beneath the soil. I have been around since the creation of Foo, and each dirty soul buried at death becomes a part of me. How quickly they realized my true desires and locked me away. The keys kept me trapped—a prisoner beneath the soil. But truth be shared, I would still not have been able to rise had not so many hearts turned dark.”

  Leven was silent.

  “Now I want Reality. I want the power to be whole in Reality. I want to take what’s here and create something better there. I want what’s mine, Leven.”

  The Dearth paused as if for dramatic effect.

  “Am I supposed to clap?” Leven asked. “You won’t succeed.”

  “You know, I worried about that as well,” the Dearth said icily. “It seems that as long as the sycophants live freely, as long as they can perch on someone’s shoulder and tell them what they can be, hope will always linger. And as long as they keep me from their shores, I am trapped. But I am happy to say that the sycophants are no longer a problem.”

  Leven opened his mouth to speak, but the Dearth had other ideas. Strands of darkness snaked across the ground toward Leven. The darkness slipped up his legs and wrapped around him like a boa constrictor. Leven tried to scream, but the blackness was pushing up against the bottom of his chin and choking the air out of him. Leven tore at the strands with his hands as more of the Dearth’s strings shot over and wrapped around his arms.

  The Dearth pulled Leven up onto his feet and dragged him closer. Leven struggled for breath as the Dearth smiled at him. The tip of his decaying tongue whipped up against Leven’s right cheek.

  “The time for hope and dreams is dying,” the Dearth moaned mockingly, his dark eyes boring deep into Leven. “And there is no fate strong enough to save you.”

  The strands of black tore at Leven, pulling his skin and stretching him. He could feel his ribs being pulled apart. The Dearth’s tongue lashed out at Leven’s face again, and his rank breath made Leven’s sight go black.

  “Your time is . . .” the Dearth stopped talking. His eyes became as wide as prunes and he held Leven back to stare at him. “It’s not possible.”

  Leven gasped desperately for air, his body being squeezed to death.

  “The Want?”

  The Dearth held Leven back even farther. He released his grip on Leven’s neck and began to tremble, his body jiggling like mud.

  “How?”

  “I can’t breathe,” Leven gasped.

  The Dearth loosened his grip around Leven’s chest.

  “That’s impossible,” the Dearth said. “How can you be the Want?”

  Leven’s eyes burned and he could see right through the Dearth. He could see the hundreds of dark veins and pitch-black organs. He saw the Dearth’s raisin-sized heart beating weakly. The Dearth’s body began to shake and rumble. He set Leven down and retracted the black strands.

  Leven stood up straight, breathing in deep and rubbing his neck and arms.

  “For someone who’s been in Foo for so long,” Leven said, “you should know that impossible is not a word we have to submit to.”

  The Dearth was shaking uncontrollably. “You killed the Want?”

  “By accident,” Leven said.

  “He was your relative?”

  “My grandfather.”

  The Dearth began to moan and scream. He tilted back his sticky head and howled. His body dripped and ran, pooling up black

  puddles all over the tent.

  “Now might be a good time to get out of here,” Clover whispered into Leven’s ear.

  “You’re here?” Leven said, surprised.

  “Of course,” Clover said. “Now get out.”

  Leven dashed towards the door of the tent, pushed it open, and burst out. A handful of rants were standing around a fire in the distance. They spotted Leven and instantly gave chase.

  “Run!” Clover yelled.

  “Thanks for the suggestion!” Leven yelled back.

  Leven ran into the field of tavel as fast as he could. He pushed the stalks of purple and green aside, taking steps twice as long as his normal gait.

  “They’re coming fast!” Clover screamed. “And there’s a ton of them.”

  “Where were you?” Leven yelled back.

  “I was there the whole time,” Clover answered. “I just thought it might be smart to stay hidden. I was just about to save you when he let go.”

  “Right,” Leven called back.

  “You can thank me later.”

  Leven tore through the tavel, the sound of angry rants close behind him and swatches of growth snapping under his step. A large moon was sliding down the far side of the dark sky and Leven could see nothing but the high stalks of tavel for miles and miles.

  “I don’t know where I’m going,” Leven admitted. “I don’t know where I am.”

  “Who cares?” Clover screamed. “Just go.”

  “He didn’t seem too happy about me being the Want,” Leven hollered.

  “People like that are always miserable.”

  Leven turned and ran between two tight lines of tavel. He slipped down behind one of the rows and rolled to the ground.

  “What are you doing?” Clover whispered.

  “Shhhh,” Leven said quickly.

  The rants were systematically pushing through the tavel searching for Leven. They swore and hollered, slicing at the tall stalks with their kilves. Two ran past them, their feet kicking dust up into Leven’s face.

  Leven could feel the dirt beneath him moaning in confusion.

  “We’ve got to get moving,” Leven said. “Find some stone.”

  “That way,” Clov
er pointed.

  Leven stood and ran in the direction Clover had pointed. The growing tavel was so thick he could barely push through it. Leven’s movement attracted the attention of the rants and they shouted to follow after him. The moon held its height in the sky, curious as to what was happening.

  “Where’s the stone?” Leven yelled as Clover held tightly to his neck.

  “I don’t know,” Clover answered.

  “But you said this way.”

  “I thought one of us should make a decision.”

  The rants were all behind them, running in a line. Leven turned and headed towards the direction of the moon.

  “How did we get here anyway?” Leven asked.

  “Candy.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “No.”

  “Do you have more?”

  “Yes, but the wind will just blow us back to that ugly guy,” Clover yelled. “What’s the deal with his hair? It’s gross.”

  “You’re obsessed with people’s hair,” Leven yelled back. “Find some stone. I can still hear him hissing beneath us.”

  “What are you going to do?” Clover screamed. “Stand on a rock while they tackle you?”

  Leven zipped down another row of tavel, looking for any sign of some way out. The rows went on for miles with no hint of a break. Leven could see a rant pushing through the tavel and coming at him from the side. The stalks of grain rolled up and down as he got closer, reminding Leven of the avalands that had chased Winter and him on the Oklahoma prairie.

  Another rant was closing in from the left. Leven’s legs popped and burned like hot oil, his lungs exhausted.

  “Please,” Leven pleaded, begging his gift to kick in. “Please.”

  “I’m not sure good manners are going to help us right now,” Clover yelled. “In fact, you might try swearing.”

  Leven could hear rants right behind him, swinging their kilves. He could feel the wind from their movement, and they had apparently taken Clover’s advice about swearing.

  Leven couldn’t breathe. His side was cramped and each step felt like a blow to the kidney.

  “Please,” Leven whispered.

  His gift didn’t kick in, but the ground beneath him began to rise. Leven stumbled, but caught his stride as the ground lifted.

  “What’s happening?” Clover yelled. “You’re wobbly.”

  “The ground’s lifting.”