Leven Thumps and the Gateway to Foo

by Obert Skye

The captain flipped desperately through his book trying to find any sort of instruction for handling rabid clouds.

  “Anything?” the copilot yelled.

  “No,” the captain yelled back frantically. “But there is a section for taking notes.”

  A sinister hazen moved in front of the plane. Its eyes looked like pieces of white-hot charcoal, and its mouth looked like a meteor crater. It opened its mouth wider, and the plane flew right into it. All the lights in the aircraft flickered and dimmed as the plane turned upside down. Those who had long ago given up obeying the seat-belt sign dropped to the ceiling and then back to their seats as the plane turned back over. Four thick clouds wrapped themselves around the wings and pushed the plane forward and down.

  Dennis wiped his forehead and bit his tongue. It felt as if they were traveling just over the speed of life.

  “Ezra!” Dennis yelled.

  Ezra didn’t hear Dennis, but if he had he would have been angry about him even asking for help when Ezra had his own troubles to deal with.

  As the plane rocketed toward the ground, all the passengers gave up hope of ever living through such an ordeal. A number of people sat back in their seats and let their lives flash before their eyes, while others screamed until their lungs were raw, then collapsed in fear and exhaustion.

  Dennis unbuckled his seat belt and stood. He looked down at the bank sticker on his shirt and at his unwrinkled pants. For some reason that seemed to comfort him. His outfit felt like a uniform, like he was a part of something. The plane rocked to the north, and Dennis flew into a young lady whose face was the color of a honeydew melon.

  “Sorry!” Dennis screamed.

  She looked at him as if he were crazy.

  The plane tilted forward even further. Three of the overhead bins popped open, and bags exploded and rained down on passengers.

  Outside, the hazen were fighting over the plane. Dennis’s stomach lurched. He needed a bathroom, and he held onto the seats as he worked his way toward the rear of the plane. He leaned over far enough to look out a window. Despite all the clouds wrapped around the plane, there were a few holes where he could see the ground.

  It wasn’t far away. At the speed they were traveling, they would hit the ground in a few minutes.

  The plane suddenly flew sideways, and Dennis lost his footing. He fell to his knees and began clawing his way toward the bathroom. Passengers and luggage burst into the aisle. When he reached the rear of the plane he could hear a high-pitched screaming. He stepped away from the bathroom door and pushed open the service door. Still feeling sick, he moved into the very back of the plane. There, up near the ceiling, was Ezra, twisted into and holding onto a thin strand of something black.

  “Help me pull!” Ezra screamed, his small voice barely audible over the screams of the passengers and the roar of the engines.

  “Let go!” Dennis screamed back. “The plane’s going to crash!”

  The black cord Ezra was clinging to sizzled and hissed.

  “Let go!” Dennis shouted, grabbing onto Ezra and trying to pull him off Sabine. “Please!” Dennis begged. “Please.”

  Ezra swore, made a rather harsh remark about Dennis not being a man, and let go. Sabine slithered out.

  Almost instantly the hazen stopped pounding, and the plane began to level out. Dennis could hear a more hopeful chorus of screams from out front.

  “You fool! He’s from Foo,” Ezra screamed at Dennis. “I shouldn’t have let him go. He can get us back.”

  Ezra’s purple top was writhing and swirling.

  “Only if we’re alive,” Dennis reasoned.

  Dennis grabbed Ezra and shoved him into the fanny pack. He walked back out front. Everyone was still screaming, seeing how the plane was still moving rapidly toward the ground. Dennis looked out and hoped that he was right about letting go of the black string and keeping them alive.

  The thick, orange hazen began to cluster under the plane, pushing upward as the plane hurled toward the earth. Dennis could see trees and mountains rising up. The clouds pushed some more, and the plane slowed. Several wet hazen wadded themselves up and crawled into the engines. The engines coughed and stopped, allowing the hazen to slow the plane to a complete stop about fifty feet above the ground.

  It is quite a sensation to be sitting in a huge metal plane, hovering above a busy freeway being held up by a ring of clouds. The cars below came to a screeching stop, frantically trying to get or stay out from beneath the hovering plane.

  Then, as if to make a point, the hazen flipped the floating plane one last time and set it down gently on its top in the middle of Interstate 40.

  ii

  Tim Tuttle looked at his surroundings and wondered exactly what year it was. The home he was sitting in looked as though it had not been touched or updated since 1952. A large portrait of a young girl holding a bundle of wheat hung over a small fireplace that was fronted with a rock facade. The carpet underfoot was yellow shag, with wide wear patterns that ran the entire length of the room. In one corner there was a birdcage with a single tiny, sickly sounding, orange bird in it. Every couple of seconds it would try to chirp, but the sound was more like a wet cough. In the other corner, two small desks faced a green chalkboard. Written on the chalkboard was a list of difficult-looking spelling words. The desks were occupied at the moment—one by a girl with a blonde bob who looked about ten and the other one by a boy with a buzzed head who looked around twelve.

  Tim was sitting on a short couch with a huge rose pattern print. He was in the home of John and Margo Hunch. Thanks to Terry’s tip about Maine, Tim had made the trip out there to see if he could get one step closer to finding Winter and the boy named Leven with whom she was said to be traveling.

  Tim had spent the morning at the public library looking for information.

  Luckily for him, it had not been very long since Winter and Leven had been through Maine, and the story of a boy and girl driving a car off into the ocean was not hard to find. Most of the stories talked about Cape Porpoise, and most mentioned a woman by the name of Margo Hunch as the last person to talk to the boy, at a church barbecue. Leven and Winter had run off after Margo had asked too many questions about who they were. A number of people had chased after them but, according to the story, the two kids had stolen a car and driven it off a wharf into the Atlantic Ocean.

  Tim had come to the Hunch home hoping to find some answers. Margo had welcomed him in and then run off to get him something to drink. She came back into the room and handed Tim a teacup filled with lemon-flavored water. Tim took a sip and set the cup down.

  “Delicious,” he lied. “So, Margo, you talked to these children?”

  “Mrs. Hunch,” she corrected. “And just the boy. The lemon helps with the digestive tract,” she added, pointing to the cup of water she had served up, and settling into her own seat.

  “Oh,” Tim said, confused. “Thank you. Well, what did they say?”

  “Not much. I didn’t recognize them so I walked up to the boy. I thought, New faces, let’s welcome them in. Anyhow, I . . .”

  Her daughter, sitting at her desk, raised her hand.

  “Yes, Florence?” Mrs. Hunch said.

  “What’s the capital of Norway?” Florence asked.

  “If I told you, that’d be cheating,” Mrs. Hunch sang. “But I’ll give you a hint: Norway is often referred to as the Land of the Midnight Sun.”

  Florence didn’t look all that grateful for the help.

  “So,” Mrs. Hunch continued, “I was fascinated with a white streak of hair the boy had. I was only showing interest in him, and I think he got offended. But I had seen a report on him on TV about how he supposedly ruined his parents’ house.”

  Her son’s hand went up.

  “Yes, George.”

  “Can I use the bathroom?”

  Mrs. Hunch was silent.

  “May I use the bathroom?” George corrected himself.

  Mrs. Hunch picked up a small egg timer that was sitt
ing on the end table near her. She flipped it over, and the sand began to run down. “Be back before the last grain,” she said, giving permission.

  George raced off to the bathroom.

  “You’ve got quite a system here,” Tim said, referring to her home-schooled children.

  Mrs. Hunch sighed. “It’s not always easy. But if you knew what goes on in some public schools.”

  The last grain of sand dropped in the egg timer just as the sound of the toilet flushing was heard. George came racing back into the room and frantically slid into his desk. He looked at the egg timer and sighed.

  “Two paragraphs on why soil erosion is less of a problem than the government says it is,” Mrs. Hunch said, handing out George’s punishment for taking too long.

  “But—” George tried to argue.

  “Three paragraphs,” Mrs. Hunch said.

  George slumped in his seat.

  “Well, I can see you’re busy,” Tim said, standing. “I won’t take any more of your time. Just one last question, though.”

  Mrs. Hunch looked perplexed by the thought of a question being asked without a hand being raised first.

  “The newspapers all say that the children drove the car right off into the ocean,” Tim said.

  “That’s actually not a question,” she pointed out, “but from what I hear, that’s what happened.”

  “And the car just sank?”

  “It hit some ice, or rocks,” she said. “It was very cloudy, so nobody got a perfect look at where they fell in.”

  “Have they found it? The car,” Tim clarified.

  “Not that I’ve heard,” she said sadly. “What a terrible tragedy. Those poor little hoodlums. I’ll try to make their lives count by using them as an example in my teaching.”

  Tim just looked at her.

  “A bad example,” she specified.

  Florence raised her hand and asked her mother if she could build a working volcano for her science project. Mrs. Hunch nixed the idea and suggested instead that she paint the back porch.

  As Tim stepped out the front door he asked, “How far is it to the spot where they drove into the ocean?”

  “Two miles that way,” she pointed. “There’s a small flower shop just before the turnoff.”

  Tim thanked her and made his way to his rented car.

  iii

  The ocean looked gigantic. The sky was clear and blue. Tim had driven past the flower shop to the end of the wharf. He had then gotten out and searched for signs of a car flying off. At the end of the dock he found the exact spot where the car had gone into the water. The skid marks from the police car that had been chasing Leven and Winter were thick and dark.

  “Where are you?” Tim asked the air.

  The newspapers had all reported about how the authorities had searched the ocean for the sunken car but found no sign of it. Some speculated that it may have floated for a few moments and then been pushed farther out to sea by an especially strong current. None of that made sense. Tim knew there had to be more to the story.

  He knew that Winter was still alive.

  Tim kept thinking back to the old woman who had twice stood on his doorstep so many years before. He thought about what she had told him and wondered if what was happening now had anything to do with the secret she had shared.

  Regardless, Tim knew he couldn’t give up. Winter was somewhere, and even if the trail had grown cold here at the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, he couldn’t stop looking. He turned and headed toward town and back to the public library, his heart practically bursting in his chest.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Bridge to Niteon

  Leven had never seen a whisp before. Of course, he had never seen rovens or sarus or siids or tharms or Foo either. But there was something about the whisp that was sadder than all the things he had seen so far. A whisp was a person, but it was an incomplete person. Sometimes those in Reality are not properly lined up on a mismatched sidewalk or lane, so fate snatches only a wisp of them into Foo. Such an occurrence leaves the person in Reality feeling as if he or she is missing something or not all there, and it creates a whisp in Foo—an incomplete being that can’t touch or feel and has no physical capacities.

  A great sorrow radiated from the whisp Leven was looking at. It was clear she knew she was not whole and seemed to understand that she never would be again.

  “Where am I?” Janet asked.

  “Foo,” Leven answered.

  She was a large woman with a wrinkled face and dirty, unkempt hair. She looked like a pale prune in tight slippers and a yellow housedress.

  “What’s the matter with me?” she cried.

  “You’re a whisp,” Clover said, materializing on top of Leven’s head.

  Janet jumped back three feet and put her hand to her mouth. She had been startled by Clover, but she was terrified by the fact that when she threw her hand to her mouth, it went right through her head.

  “I’m a ghost,” she whimpered, looking closely at her hands.

  Clover laughed. “Ghosts aren’t real. You must not have been lined up right for Foo to snatch you completely. So, it took a little of your essence and left you mostly whole in Reality.”

  Janet reached out and tried to touch Leven. Her hand went right through his shoulder. In the last green light of dusk Leven could see tears streaking down her face.

  “Am I dead?” she asked.

  “No,” Leven said, trying to calm her and wondering how he could explain a place he still didn’t fully understand. “This is Foo. We’ll get you some help, but we need to hurry.”

  Janet just cried, but she followed behind as Leven began to walk. Clover pointed out the direction, and Leven made his way around some thick, knotty trees and through a patch of gigantic, oval-shaped boulders.

  The trees behind them whispered. The whispering sounded confused, as if searching for a direction.

  “This place is creepy. Let’s get out of here,” Leven said, walking faster.

  The trees opened up, and there was the entry to the first bridge. The bridge spanned Fissure Gorge, which was enormous. The far side looked miles away. As wide as the gorge was, it was over twice as deep, and its depths were pitch black, except for a thin line of orange running along the very bottom. The orange ribbon glowed and pulsated, sending up currents of warm air.

  The whispering of the trees could still be heard, hissing throughout the forest like a snake in search of food.

  “The secret’s not going to give up, is it?” Leven said in a hushed voice.

  “Let’s hope that it stays in the trees and doesn’t cross the gorge,” Clover said, his voice indicating that he was holding onto Leven’s right leg. “Most secrets don’t dare expose themselves in the open like that. And it will never enter Cork.”

  Leven reached the opening of the bridge. There was a large brick arch spanning the entrance. On the left side of the arch was a small stone building with a crooked chimney jutting out of its thatched roof. A door opened in the guardhouse, and a gigantic bird stepped out. The bird was as tall as Leven and wore a blue jacket and glasses. His feet looked white under the moonlight.

  “You wish to cross?” he asked.

  “We’re on our way to Niteon,” Leven said.

  “Is that whisp yours?” he chirped.

  Leven turned and looked at Janet. “She was lost in the forest,” he said. “After we get to the turrets, we’ll take her to Cork.”

  “Are you aware of the war?” the bird asked suspiciously, walking around Leven.

  “I am,” Leven answered, begrudging the time they were wasting standing there, “if you are talking about the war Sabine started.”

  The bird nodded and stepped back. “I wish you well,” it said.

  Leven nodded back and moved toward the bridge. He was stopped by the excited clamor of the bird.

  “What are you doing?” the bird squawked.

  “I was going to cross,” Leven said, confused.

  “Without fla
ttering it?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The bridge,” the bird said with disgust. “Have you never crossed before?”

  “No . . .” Leven began.

  The bird sighed, which actually sounded like a very long whistle. “See those rocks over there?” The bird pointed to a number of rocks jutting out from the near side of the gorge.

  Leven could see the rocks. He could also see numerous other rocks sticking out into the gorge. Some actually extended out over the gorge a number of feet. Some were only a few inches long.

  “Those are young bridges,” the bird explained. “The stones on this side get curious to know what it’s like on the other side. So they shift and stretch and grow until they either give up or connect with another bunch of curious stones reaching to get here from the other side.”

  “You grow your bridges?” Leven asked in disbelief.

  “They grow themselves,” the bird chirped. “It is a miraculous thing when they actually meet and a new bridge is created. Of course, once the two sides meet, they realize there really is nothing great on the other side, and they become indifferent. They sit there until someone tries to cross. Then they simply fall apart and drop into the gorge.”

  “So if we cross, they’ll fall?” Leven asked incredulously.

  “If you don’t flatter them, they will,” the bird replied in a tone that suggested Leven was far from brilliant.

  “Flatter them?”

  “Tell them they’re doing a good job. You know,” the bird said. “We must preserve the bridge.”

  “So I talk to the bridge?” Leven laughed.

  “And you’d better be convincing. Otherwise the bridge is destroyed and you’re caught in the air of the gorge or you drop to burn forever in the glow.” The sentinel bird stopped talking to dig under his right wing with his beak. “Sorry,” he apologized, “I’m trying to kick the bird in me, be a bit more dignified. But let me say this, even if you did make it back out of the gorge after you fell, there would be so many angry about the loss of another bridge that you would wish you were dead.”

  Leven glanced at the bridge, then looked again at the gorge. It seemed deeper than any sky Leven had ever gazed up into.