If You're Reading This, It's Too Late

by Pseudonymous Bosch

  The kids all shifted nervously on their pine-needle seats.

  “What’s the big deal? Meat is meat! You know what they say — tastes like chicken, right? Although, honestly, more like pork . . .”

  “I don’t care how it tastes, I couldn’t ever eat a person.” Cass shoved her pile of food away as if it were the person in question.

  “I thought you were a survivalist! You’ll never last in the wild if you’re so squeamish,” said the homunculus. “Personally, I would consider it an honor to be eaten — assuming I was already dead, of course.”

  “Can you die?” asked Yo-Yoji.

  The homunculus eyed him suspiciously. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Uh, no reason,” said Yo-Yoji quickly. “Except these guys said you were five hundred years old —”

  “You forgot to say, and looking pretty good on it!”

  Cass pulled the Sound Prism out of her sweatshirt pocket. “So, Mr. Cabbage Face, am I supposed to give this to you? It’s sort of yours, I guess.”

  “No, it’s yours. But please — would you play the song? It’s been a while since I heard it up close. Matter of fact, no one’s called me on the Sound Prism for a couple hundred years. Last one was a boy named Gilbert. Excuse me, Sir Gilbert. What a spoiled brat!”

  Cass obligingly tossed the ball into the air. It played the same song it always played — but it was different with Cabbage Face himself there.

  Listening, the homunculus looked at the ground, lost in time.

  Was that a tear in his eye? It was hard to be sure.

  She had to ask: “So, then, am I the . . . rightful heir?”

  “Of course you are,” said the homunculus. “I could tell the Sound Prism was yours the second I laid eyes on you.”

  “You could? How?” asked Cass in amazement.

  “Those pointy ears of yours. Just like the Jester’s. Anybody could see from a mile away . . .”

  Cass felt her ears reddening at the homunculus’s words. “The Jester? I’m descended from the Jester?”

  She couldn’t believe it: somebody else had walked the earth with her big, pointy, target-of-joke-y ears.

  She tried to remember everything she’d read about the Jester and the way he’d saved the homunculus from his horrible master. He may have been named after the god of thieves, but the Jester — Hermes — was a hero, and somehow, in some way, he was hers.

  Who, then, was the girl named on the birth certificate, Cass wondered suddenly. She was about to ask the homunculus when she realized his information would be hundreds of years out of date. The answer would have to wait.

  Max-Ernest pointed to the Sound Prism. “You know, the Midnight Sun are looking for that. They already stole it once.”

  “Ah.” The homunculus’s face darkened. “So they’re still at it, are they?”

  “You didn’t know? There’s a hundred of them at least — plus Ms. Mauvais and Dr. L. They’re the worst!” said Max-Ernest.

  “Well, I don’t get out much these days. Just to get a bite every now and then . . .”

  Cass touched her ears to make sure they’d cooled. “The reason they want the Sound Prism is that they’re looking for you.”

  “Not for me. For the grave.”

  “Grave?” repeated Yo-Yoji.

  “Lord Pharaoh’s grave. Where do you think I’ve been all these years? Guarding it. Just in case.”

  “Why do they want to find it? Would it be really bad if they did?” asked Yo-Yoji.

  “Oh, I don’t know — is the end of the world bad? The destruction of everything you hold dear?”

  “Why, what’s inside it?” Yo-Yoji persisted.

  “Waste. Lord Pharaoh’s waste. The excrement of evil.”

  “You mean his” — Max-Ernest reddened — “poop?”

  “No — although, believe me, his bowel movements were bad enough! When I was little I had to clean out his chamber pots.” The homunculus shook off the memory. “No, I mean the remains of his alchemical work. I buried it all with him — but as hard as I tried, I couldn’t destroy it. Its power never dies. It only festers.”

  “So, it’s kind of like nuclear waste?” asked Cass. “Like radiation?”

  “I don’t know about that — but if you say so.”

  “You have to come with us. We’ll take you to Pietro. He’ll know what to do. He’s the leader of the Terces Society.”

  “The Terces Society?” The homunculus laughed.

  “Sure. Why not? They’ll protect you,” said Cass defensively.

  “What can they do? Bunch of . . . librarians!” He pronounced the word as if it were a terrible insult. “Just keeping records — how does that help anybody?”

  There was silence for a moment. The kids found it hard to defend the Terces Society; after all, they didn’t really know very much about it.

  Then Cass did what any good survivalist would do.

  She improvised.

  “Well, there are also a few chefs,” said Cass, emphasizing the last word.

  “Chefs?” echoed the homunculus.

  Yo-Yoji jumped in. “Yeah, you should see the meals! They’re like full-on banquets. More food than you could ever eat. . . .”

  “I doubt that,” scoffed the homunculus. But they could tell they’d sparked his interest.

  “Well, more food than we could eat,” said Max-Ernest, catching on. “But it would be just the right amount for you. All the meat you could want — and they always sear it. Everything’s totally juicy and delicious! Well, not everything. Only the things that have natural juices, I mean, but there are a lot of them! How ’bout that?”

  “Yeah, they make crown roast every day, best you’ve ever had,” said Cass. She wasn’t sure what crown roast was, but it sounded like something that somebody who ate with a king’s hogs might like.

  “Hmm . . .” The homunculus hesitated. “Maybe it’s not such a bad idea to check in with the Terces Society, after all. Everybody I knew died two hundred years ago. Maybe the new crop isn’t so useless. If they know how to cook a good crown roast, that obviously speaks well of their character.”

  “Great!” said Cass. “You won’t regret it.”

  “Wait — how are we going to take him back without your grandfathers seeing?” whispered Yo-Yoji.

  “Um, we’ll figure it out by tomorrow. . . .” Cass scanned their surroundings, as if the answer might be hidden among the bones on the ground.

  Walking down a mountain, I’m sure you’ll agree, is almost always more fun than hiking up.

  For Max-Ernest, however, the descent from Whisper Lake was far more difficult than the ascent to Whisper Lake — because now his second backpack was full.

  Thankfully, as Max-Ernest had pointed out earlier, the backpack had wheels, so he could drag it. The problem was: whenever the descent became very steep, the weight of the backpack would push him forward down the mountain. Twice, he’d fallen on his face — although so far he’d suffered nothing worse than a scrape and a bruise.

  The third time he fell it looked especially painful.

  “Ouch!” / “Aaargh!”

  “Are you OK?” asked Grandpa Larry as Max-Ernest picked himself up off the ground. “That sounded pretty bad.”

  “Yeah, I’m all right,” said Max-Ernest, but simultaneously he also seemed to be crying out, “Ummph! Ugghh!”

  “You sure? You sound like you’re a hundred years old all of a sudden. . . .”

  “He’s just got a little cough or something,” said Cass, coming between them.

  Max-Ernest forced a smile as the moaning continued. “Yeah, that’s it. Really, I’m fine!”

  Grandpa Larry eyed Max-Ernest suspiciously. “All right, but if you’re in any pain at all, we have a first-aid kit. I don’t want to get in trouble with your parents when we get home. I always catch enough from Cass’s mom, right, Cass?”

  “Right,” said Cass. Surreptitiously, she gave a little kick to the backpack and the moaning stopped.

  “
What’s in there?” asked Grandpa Wayne, catching up with them. “Looks kind of heavy.”

  “Oh, just some trash,” Yo-Yoji interjected from a few feet ahead. “You know what they say — take only pictures, leave only footprints!”

  At the trash comment, a growl of protest issued from the backpack. The kids stifled laughs.

  Grandpa Larry smiled, unhearing. “Ah. Such good citizens of nature!”

  “We should just be glad Max-Ernest thought of bringing an extra backpack,” said Yo-Yoji. “Definitely came in handy.”

  He flashed an apologetic grin at Max-Ernest before continuing to lead them down the trail.

  “I’m hungry!”

  After hiking, riding in the back of Wayne’s truck felt comparatively luxurious. They lay back against their backpacks, feet up, out of view of the highway patrol.

  But they had another issue to contend with:

  “I’m hungry!”

  A hungry homunculus, in case you’ve never encountered one, is irritable and combative, if not downright dangerous.

  Even, maybe especially, when he’s stuck in a backpack.

  The kids wouldn’t let him out; they were afraid Cass’s grandfathers would be able to see him through the rear window of the truck’s cab. But they opened the backpack enough so he could eat.

  In the first five minutes of the drive, the homunculus called Mr. Cabbage Face (but now known privately to the kids as Mr. Stuff Your Face) ripped through a bag of beef jerky, the remains of Cass’s trail mix, and an old apple that had been sitting at the bottom of Yo-Yoji’s backpack from his last trip.

  When he kept complaining that he was hungry, Max-Ernest offered him a pack of gum. The homunculus swallowed every piece in rapid succession.

  “You know they say gum stays in your ribs forever,” said Max-Ernest.

  “Yeah, well, they say a lot of things, don’t they? And not many of them apply to somebody who’s five hundred years old and made in a bottle! Now what else have you got to eat?”

  “Nothing!” said Cass, who was growing tired of his constant harping.

  “Oh yeah? You’ve got ten fingers and ten toes, don’t you? Not to mention those ears. A little chewy on top maybe, but those lobes look tender. . . .”

  Everyone assumed he was joking — but they all balled their fingers and curled their toes just in case. And Cass lowered her hat protectively.

  “Yeah, you hide those little toesies!” the homunculus harrumphed. “See if that stops me from chewing through your boots.”

  “Where does he put it all?” the kids asked each other more than once. “And where does it go?”

  The answer to that last question became clear soon enough; the homunculus asked for rest stops almost as often as he asked for food.

  In order to explain the constant need for bathroom breaks, Cass told her grandfathers that Max-Ernest had “stomach problems.” If Larry and Wayne thought it was strange that Max-Ernest always took a backpack into the bathroom, they didn’t say anything. After all, they’d seen how afraid he was of the port-a-potties.

  “It’s kind of like having to take care of Sebastian,” whispered Cass to Max-Ernest, when the truck pulled back onto the highway after a particularly long break.

  “Who’s that?” asked Yo-Yoji.

  “Her grandfathers’ dog,” said Max-Ernest.

  The homunculus stuck his head out of the backpack. “Oh yeah? What kind? I love dog!”

  “He’s a basset hound.”

  “Huh. Not bad. Short legs. You cook them like hot wings —”

  “He’s old and he wears a diaper and I’m sure he tastes really really bad,” said Cass. “So don’t get any ideas!”

  “Great — not only don’t you have any more food for me, I’m not even allowed to think about eating! You’re a laugh and a half!”

  Cursing, the homunculus stuck his head back inside the backpack.

  Cass geared herself up for the one other item of business that had to take place before they got home:

  “So, Yo-Yoji, I hope you don’t mind, but I don’t really think it’s a good idea for you come to the Magic Museum.”

  “What — now that we’re back, you’re gonna act like I didn’t go with you guys?” Yo-Yoji kicked the side of the truck in frustration.

  “We might get in trouble. . . .”

  “Don’t worry — I’m great with the grown-ups. Besides, you have to tell them about me — I know about the Secret.”

  Cass looked at Max-Ernest. He shrugged: Yo-Yoji had a point.

  Behind him, purple mountains receded in the haze.

  *

  The Midnight Sun schooner had dropped anchor again — this time at a harbor more befitting the luxurious ship than that rotten old dock at which we last saw it.

  On all sides there were impressive, massive yachts — the floating mansions of the rich and powerful.

  And on the deck of the Midnight Sun there was one very impressed — but not very massive — girl.

  Amber, I’m afraid to say, looked rather diminished by her new surroundings. At school, where everyone knew her as the nicest and third prettiest, Amber loomed large in the eyes of her peers and even of her teachers. Out here on the water, stripped of her credentials, she seemed a mere wisp of a thing; she practically cowered in the presence of her twin heroes, the Skelton Sisters, as she met them in person for the first time.

  Of course, the invitation had been a fabulous honor. The secret text messages she’d been receiving ever since she got her pink Skelton Sisters twin♥heartsTM cell phone had been thrilling enough. But this time Romi (or was it Montana? she hadn’t dared ask) had called her personally!

  Amber immediately made her parents rush her to the ship, which she boarded wearing all of her latest Skelton Sisters twin♥heartsTM fashions and in a state of excitement I can only compare to — well, I don’t know what to compare it to. (Perhaps the excitement you feel meeting the author of a book, he suggested modestly.)

  But which sister was which?

  Even Amber, who’d watched every single Skelton Sisters twin♥heartsTM DVD ever filmed, and who’d listened to every Skelton Sisters twin♥heartsTM CD ever recorded, and who’d read every issue of every Skelton Sisters twin♥heartsTM magazine ever released, even Amber had trouble telling Romi and Montana apart.

  As soon as they’d welcomed Amber onto the boat, and assured her parents that she would be safe alone with them for an hour (“We’ll treat her like she’s our own sister!”), one of the sisters — the pinker one; I think it was Montana — held out (more like dangled) a gift for their young visitor in her gloved hand.

  “Wow, thanks! He’s soooo cute!”

  Shaking with nervousness, Amber took the little creature from Montana (or was it Romi?). It looked, Amber couldn’t help noticing, just like Cass’s sockmonster — except that it was pink and sparkly and it came on a little jeweled leash you could wear around your wrist. (And I’ll bet it wasn’t hand-stitched by a survivalist, but rather manufactured by child labor in Sri Lanka.)

  It also had a large tag bearing the words:

  sock♥roach®

  a twin♥hearts™ inc. original

  by romi and montana

  “They come in twelve colors — plus rainbow,” said Montana (or was it Romi?). “If you do everything we tell you, we’ll give you one of each — before they’re even in stores!”

  “Really? That would be so awesome!” said Amber, strapping the sock♥roach® to her wrist.

  Not to be outdone, Romi (or was it Montana?) took a heart-shaped cupcake out of a pink box. “Here, eat this — it’s from our new chain of twin♥heartsTM bakeries!” she said, tracing the heart and trademark signs in the air with her finger.

  Montana (or was it Romi?) gasped. “No! Don’t give that to her — she’s too fat!”

  Amber looked down at her stomach in alarm — nobody had ever called her fat before.

  “Oh, that’s just baby fat,” said Romi (or was it Montana?). She sniffed the cupcake
, inhaling with a look of rapture. Then put it under Amber’s nose. “Doesn’t it smell good? Here — eat!”

  “No, don’t!” said Montana (or was it Romi?), pulling Romi’s (or was it Montana’s?) arm away from Amber. “She’ll turn into a pig!”

  “Don’t be silly — eat!” said Romi (or was it Montana?), thrusting the cupcake back under Amber’s nose.

  “No!” Montana (or was it Romi?) tugged on Amber’s arm to keep her away from her sister. “Just think oink! I’m turning into a pig! That’s what I do whenever I’m about to eat something. It’s, like, my anti-eating mantra.”

  “C’mon, one little cupcake never hurt anybody — eat!” Romi (or was it Montana?) tugged on Amber’s other arm, to bring her closer to the cupcake.

  “Oink!” Montana (or was it Romi?) tugged the other arm again.

  “Eat!” Romi (or was it Montana?) tugged back.

  “Oink!” Tug.

  “Eat!” Tug.

  “Oink, I mean, oww . . . stop!” said Amber, whose face, pink with pain, was beginning to look decidedly piggish.

  But the sisters, caught up in their battle, ignored her cry.

  “Oink!” Tug.

  “Eat!” Tug.

  “Oink!” This time, instead of tugging, Montana (or was it Romi?) grabbed the cupcake — but not in time to keep Romi (or was it Montana?) from shoving it into Amber’s helpless mouth.

  As the relieved Amber chewed, the two skeletal sisters fell silent and stared at her like starving wolves eyeing a plump chicken. Nobody watching would have been surprised to see them pounce and sink their teeth into her neck.

  “It’s really good — don’t you guys want some?” asked Amber, her mouth full.

  “NO!” they both yelled in unison.

  “Are you kidding?!” asked Romi (or was it Montana?).

  “We don’t eat!” said Montana (or was it Romi?), as if the very idea were preposterous.

  “We just like to watch,” said Romi (or was it Montana?).

  “Here, do you want another?” asked Montana (or was it Romi?), picking another cupcake out of the box. Her eyes glazed, she seemed to have forgotten all about her fears of Amber getting fat.