Leven Thumps and the Gateway to Foo

by Obert Skye

  “Clover’s not a girl’s name,” Clover insisted. “It’s a perfectly masculine name.”

  “Sort of like Daisy?”

  “No, not like Daisy,” Clover argued.

  “I suppose it doesn’t matter anyway, seeing as how you have a solid name like Steven.”

  “Still,” Clover said, hurt. “You don’t know if my middle name might be Clover, or maybe I have a brother named that.”

  “Do you?” Leven asked.

  “No.”

  “Well, that’s lucky for your brother,” Leven teased, his head almost fully cleared.

  “You should be going faster,” Clover said sourly.

  “All right, Clover,” Leven smiled.

  “Hey . . . how did . . . the water’s worn off?” Clover asked sheepishly.

  “Yes,” Leven answered. “Steven?”

  “I was just trying it out.”

  “And Ted?”

  “I thought you’d like it.”

  Leven laughed. “About as much as I like these stairs.”

  Leven grabbed the rail and pulled himself up as he climbed. You could almost hear his leg muscles screaming in pain.

  “I’d give anything just to be able to see the top,” Leven said. “Just to know there’s an end.”

  “I might have a telescope,” Clover said, reaching into his void.

  After a couple of seconds of rummaging he pulled out a wooden telescope. Leven extended it and put it to his right eye.

  “I’m not sure,” Leven breathed, “but I think I can see where it stops.”

  “How far up?” Clover asked.

  “Too far.”

  Leven lowered the telescope from his eye and handed it back to Clover. Leven had a black ring around the eye he had looked with.

  “Whoa, I forgot that I . . .” Clover started to say.

  “What?”

  “I was going to play a joke on an old classmate, Stream.”

  “What are you taking about?” Leven asked.

  “Nothing,” Clover said, slipping the telescope back into his void.

  He brought out a small piece of cloth. “Here—you’ve got a little something around your eye.”

  Leven wiped his eye and looked with disgust at the black smudge on the cloth. Glaring at Clover, he asked, “Do you have anything in there that could actually help us?”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “I’m not talking about food,” Leven clarified. “I mean, like a grappling hook that will pull us up, or some sort of elevator stick.”

  “Elevator stick?” Clover laughed. “No, but I have these.”

  Clover pulled out a large cloth bag with words embroidered on the front of it. The stitching read: “Corn-o-copious, with the patented Eternal-Kernel.”

  “No food,” Leven insisted. “I’m not eating anything you pull out of there.”

  “It’s not to eat,” Clover said. “I think it might . . . well, I’ll just try it.”

  “Hold on!” Leven said sharply. “Only try things that will help us.”

  “This couldn’t hurt.” Clover shrugged and opened the bag of mangled-looking corn. He turned it upside down and let it all dump out. After a long, silent pause Leven could faintly hear the sound of something raining down on the floor far beneath them.

  “We’re saved,” Leven said sarcastically.

  “Hold on, Ted,” Clover insisted.

  Before Leven could correct him, Clover grabbed a torch from the wall and heaved it out of its leather strap. Clover then pushed the torch and sent it sailing down the stairwell after the corn kernels. Both Leven and Clover watched as the fire seemed to fall forever before coming to rest on the ground miles down.

  “Is that it?” Leven asked. “That’s supposed to help us?”

  “That’s all I got,” Clover said. “I was hoping that—”

  Pop.

  “What was that?” Leven moaned.

  Again, from way down below, a soft pop echoed.

  “I was thinking—” Clover started to say.

  Pop, pop, pop.

  “So you thought you’d save us by making a batch of popcorn down at the bottom?” Leven asked.

  “It’s not popcorn.”

  Pop, pop, pop, pop.

  Leven looked out over the rail.

  Pop, pop. Pop, pop.

  He could see something yellow building at the bottom. There were specks of red and green and purple mixed in with the yellow.

  “I was thinking that if it popped high enough, we could let it push us up.”

  Leven stared at Clover speechless.

  “What?” Clover said defensively. “You’re the one who suggested an elevator stick.”

  “Suggested,” Leven said.

  Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

  Leven looked down. The popping was still far away, but something inside of him hinted that it might be best to run. “Let’s keep going,” Leven said urgently.

  “It might work,” Clover pointed out. “It’s rising pretty quickly. It’s not like they’re normal kernels—they’re huge. Honestly, what harm can it do to wait?”

  The growing popcorn reached the first torch. With a small whoosh the top kernels caught on fire and sparks shot up—all while the popping grew faster and more violent.

  Whoosh. It had reached the second torch. Clover looked at Leven nervously. “Maybe we should keep going,” he agreed.

  Leven took Clover’s small right hand and pulled him up onto his shoulder. He then began taking the steps as fast as he could.

  The popping increased.

  Whoosh.

  Leven could feel the heat from the fires breaking out. It was almost as warm as the burning muscles in his legs. Something the size of a fuzzy beach ball blew past Leven and straight up the shaft.

  “What was that?” Leven asked.

  “A popped kernel,” Clover answered.

  “It was huge,” Leven said, his lungs screeching at him as he took the stairs three at a time.

  “I told you it wasn’t popcorn,” Clover shouted, the rat-a-tat of exploding kernels almost deafening now.

  Whoosh!

  Whoosh!

  Whoosh!

  Fires were bursting to life every couple of seconds. A huge red piece of exploded corn shot up beneath Leven and beaned him in the back of his head. He flew forward, collapsing on the stairs.

  “Get up!” Clover yelled. “Get up!”

  Leven stood and shook it off. He looked down at the flood of gigantic kernels rapidly filling up the stairwell. Each torch the exploded kernels reached started the top layer on fire and sped up the popping.

  “We’ll never make it!” Leven yelled.

  “Not with that attitude!” Clover yelled back. “Come on.”

  The giant kernels were pelting Leven from all directions. One scratched across his face, while two more hammered his shoulders and back. They were light, but the force of the impact and the sharp edges of the kernels were enough to cause pain.

  The popping corn sounded like a machine gun, while the fires reminded Leven of the sound of lit fuses. The exploded corn was now only fifty feet below Leven.

  “Will it stop?” he shouted.

  “Not in the next couple of hours,” Clover screamed back.

  Leven willed his legs to climb. He begged his thighs to forget the pain and keep moving. He took the stairs four at a time as his world seemed to pop around him.

  “I can’t do it,” Leven despaired.

  “Well,” Clover consoled, “at least it will be a nice-smelling death.”

  The scent of warm corn was almost as strong as the heat that was creeping up around Leven’s legs and twisting around his body. A huge exploded kernel hit him in the face.

  “There’s the ceiling!” Clover screamed.

  “And a door,” Leven added.

  The corn was up to Leven’s feet. The far side of the exploded corn was on fire, shooting sparks into Leven’s face and hair. The door was only about twenty more feet up. It became hard
er and harder for Leven to pull his legs up out of the corn and onto a higher stair.

  Clover jumped down and started to push Leven’s feet up as he moved. The door was close now, but so was the corn as it swelled up around Leven’s waist. Fire was streaking up and through the loose kernels. No fire was directly touching Leven yet, but the kernels were so hot they singed his skin and clothes.

  “Come on,” Clover hollered, now standing above Leven and pulling him forward. “Come on.”

  The corn was around Leven’s neck as he reached the door.

  It was locked.

  “Please,” Leven begged the door, yanking on the wooden handle. “Open up!”

  Popped corn piled up over Leven’s head now, reaching the ceiling. The increasing pressure snuffed out the fires but squeezed Leven’s body like a clamp. Down below, the wooden stairways began to crackle and shatter as the pressure of the exploding corn became even greater.

  “Open up!” Clover screamed. “Open up!”

  The door handle was too stubborn. The door itself seemed willing, but the knob wouldn’t budge. The corn pushed Leven up against the door so tightly that he couldn’t move.

  “Open up!”

  Clover was crammed between Leven’s left arm and the door. He arched his back and pounded against the door with his tiny fists.

  “The knob won’t relax,” Leven screamed, huge kernels of scalding corn burning welts into his arms.

  The door began to rattle as if battling against its own knob.

  “I can’t breathe,” Leven said, coughing. “I’m not . . .”

  Before Leven could finish his sentence, the door, no longer willing to wait around for its stubborn knob, cracked its own hinges and shot out the pegs. It burst open from the hinge side, and Leven blew out of the stairwell and into a nicely furnished foyer. Exploded kernels washed over him and began to fill the space he was now in.

  Leven jumped to his feet looking for Clover as wave after wave of hot corn rushed past him. The corn was moving all the objects in the room, washing them away like foam.

  “Clover! Clover!” Leven yelled.

  “Ted.”

  Even in the heat of the moment Leven took the time to remind Clover how wrong that name was for him.

  “Sorry,” Clover said, bounding up onto Leven.

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  Leven ran through the river of corn to a wide door with a green wooden handle. The door opened instantly and Leven stepped out. He had no idea where he was or which direction to run.

  “Any suggestions?” Leven asked, the sound of flowing corn scraping up against everything.

  The room looked different from every direction. Walls were shifting and the scenery was changing as if it were fluid.

  “What is this place?” Leven said, confused.

  “I have no idea,” Clover said. “I don’t think many sycophants have ever been here before.”

  “I dare say you’re right about that,” a male voice said with conviction. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t care for your sort.”

  “Excuse me,” both Leven and Clover said in unison, turning to face the direction of the voice.

  The walls shifted again.

  “You’re excused,” the man replied. “Fine breed, the sycophants, but I’ve just never cared for them hanging around—invisible one second, solid the next, always sneaking.”

  “I’m not—” Clover started to say.

  “And you are . . . ?” Leven asked boldly, quieting Clover.

  The person speaking was sitting in a red leather chair, facing away from Leven. The chair swiveled, showing a man. His robe was dark with orange at every edge. The orange color increased and decreased as he breathed. Leven couldn’t see the top of his face because he had an odd-shaped hood hanging down over it, hiding everything but his twisted red beard. There was a strong light around the man, giving him a faint green aura. White strands of robe orbited and circled him like stringy hula hoops. It took Leven a moment to realize that the white strands were actually light.

  The man stood slowly. He was about six feet tall, with wide shoulders, and he held a red kilve in his right hand.

  “Who am I?” he asked. “Well, I’ve had other names, but now they call me the Want.”

  Clover gasped loudly enough for both him and Leven.

  “The Want?” Leven whispered, knowing it was true.

  “Yes,” he said. “And you must be the much-anticipated Leven Thumps.”

  Leven was silent as a strange, numbing feeling overcame him.

  “The day has crept up on us,” the Want continued. “How fortunate I am to have been standing here to witness your triumphant entry.”

  Leven stood still as gigantic pieces of exploded corn continued to flow into the changing room.

  “And look what you brought with you,” the Want said, referring to the giant popped corn. “How thoughtful. But I’m afraid we haven’t space for it all, so it must cease.”

  The Want stretched out his hands, with the kilve in his right. He moved both his arms back and forth in one smooth movement. Instantly the large, exploded corn reverted back to tiny kernels, which rained down upon the wood floor like spilt rice.

  Leven looked behind him. Back in the adjoining room the door was lying on the floor where it had fallen, and all the popcorn had disappeared. The door stood up and worked its way over to where it had ripped itself off.

  “So,” the Want said, walking closer, his kilve knocking against the ground as he advanced. “Here stands Leven Thumps.”

  The Want stepped up to Leven, his face still hidden by his hood.

  Leven stood tall.

  The Want breathed out, his lungs emitting the sound of glass underfoot. A fine powder escaped his lips and circled Leven’s head.

  “I’ve waited for this day forever,” the Want said, breathing in and taking back his previous breath. “Are you afraid, Leven Thumps?”

  Leven pushed his hair out of his eyes and squared his shoulders.

  “Come now, you can be honest with me,” the Want insisted. “Are you frightened?”

  “A little.”

  “Good,” the Want said, laughing just a bit. He jumped on one foot and then the other. “Very, very good. Your fear makes it clear that we’ve some wisdom to work with. Come. Come with me.”

  “Where?” Leven asked.

  “Questions already?” the Want sighed. “I don’t care for questions. Besides, does it matter, Leven? Didn’t Geth tell you to find me?”

  Leven nodded. “He did.”

  “And aren’t you the least bit curious what lies ahead?”

  “Of course,” Leven answered.

  “Well, how can you discover what lies ahead by simply standing still?”

  “I don’t—”

  “It might be best if you don’t do too much talking,” the Want interrupted. “I wish to remain impressed with you for as long as possible.”

  Leven was insulted but silent.

  “Follow me.”

  Despite his better judgment, Leven obeyed.

  The Want moved quickly through a shifting door, then stopped and looked at Leven with his hooded eyes. “I have not left Lith in many years,” he whispered nervously. “Of course, you know this. You must feel different just being here with me.”

  “I do,” Leven said with relief. “What is that feeling?”

  “One of many you will be experiencing,” the Want said. “My every move affects the mood of Foo. I walk in patterns to avoid and influence certain aspects, and you must know that my head is not always mine.”

  A feeling of desperation flooded over Leven.

  “Good, you are feeling a loss,” the Want smiled. “You are in tune. My home here shifts like my mind. It is not a comfortable way to live. At the moment my mind is mine, and I am telling you to step where I step and follow where I lead. At the end of our evening, our trail will play a significant role in the future of Foo.”

  “Our trail?”
<
br />   “There is a pattern and consequence to everything,” the Want said. “Now quit stalling.”

  The Want began walking quickly again. In a few seconds he was a full twenty paces ahead of Leven. Clover took the distance as a safe opportunity to speak his mind.

  “If I’m being completely honest,” Clover whispered, “I’m not quite as impressed as I thought I’d be.”

  “Me neither,” Leven whispered back.

  “Do you two think a being who sees every dream that Reality produces can’t hear the silly whispers of a sycophant and an offing twenty feet behind him?” the Want asked as he moved in front of them.

  Leven felt sick.

  “Sorry, your highness,” Clover apologized.

  “Sycophants,” the Want tsked. “It’s a pity fate favors you so. To think, the whole of Foo is contingent upon creatures as easily distracted as you.”

  “I couldn’t have made it here without him,” Leven pointed out, coming to the defense of his friend.

  “Of course not,” the Want snipped. “And again, I was more impressed with you before I knew that. Silence is golden.”

  The Want stopped and wobbled for a second. The light around him grew brighter and receded. The circling bands emitted flashes of color. He turned and lifted his arms up. After a few moments he lowered his arms and turned to face Leven, his eyes still hidden.

  “Follow me, and hurry,” he added. “The world is changing as we speak.”

  Leven and Clover followed without saying a word.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Gathered for a Cause

  Pain is not something most people seek out. Very few people in the world collect memories or mementos of things that sting. Photo albums usually are filled with pictures of birthdays and dances, camping trips and celebrations. Occasionally you’ll find a few snapshots of someone’s first car accident or operation, but for the most part the pictures we choose to look at depict pleasure, not pain.

  Likewise, no right-minded person wakes up in the morning and hopes to have a bowling ball dropped on his head or to get his foot run over by a car filled with heavy bricks. People dislike pain on all levels. Even a little pain is bothersome. Nobody wants to wear shoes that pinch or shirts that itch or pants that bind.

  Worse than pain, however, is hurt.