by Will Taylor
“They don’t,” Ben interrupted. “They really don’t. Trust us—we’re the experts here.”
Murray and Miesha glared at him, but I was too distracted to care about Ben’s rudeness. If what they were saying was true, and the forts in my network only linked up through Fort McForterson, then everything back home literally revolved around me. I was the center. I was the hub of Camp Pillow Fort. Huh. I liked that.
“Good, thank you, Miesha,” said Noriko. “I think she’s got it. And now that that’s all clear, the main business we need to discuss, Maggie Hetzger, is you and your friend joining the National Alliance. Your network is still small, but it’s developed unusually quickly, and it’s time for you to step up and get with the pillow fort program. You’ve already come close to making some major mistakes—like oversharing with that uncle of yours, for a start—and we can’t let you keep bumbling around like kindergartners anymore.”
The thought suddenly flashed through my mind that maybe this was all a very bizarre dream, and any second now I would wake up in Fort Comfy feeling downright silly.
I pinched the inside of my wrist and winced. Nope, not a dream.
“Hang on,” I said, as Noriko’s speech hit home. “How could you know we almost said too much to Uncle Joe? You weren’t even there.” The answer smacked me in the face like a sofa cushion. “Wait—have you been spying on us?!”
“The Council and Alliance monitor all linked-fort activity,” said Ben, patting his clipboard. “For your own protection, and for ours.”
“And you were actually up there in Alaska the whole time?”
“We had NAFAFA agents listening from inside what you now call Fort Orpheus, yes,” said Noriko. She held up a hand while I spluttered. “Look, our first duty here is to protect our own networks. That’s what this entire meeting is about. There’s nothing more dangerous than a splinter group of uninitiated kids running amok and drawing the attention of the authorities.”
“Authorities?” I said. Noriko was starting to sound a lot more like Ben. “What authorities?”
“Parents.”
“And teachers.”
“And lawyers.”
They were all facing me. They looked deadly serious. Not even Murray was smiling now.
“Okay,” I said. “Right. And you brought me here to . . .”
“To bring you into line,” said Noriko. “We show you the way things work”—Ben gave a satisfied nod—“and teach you the rules. Then you either join us and start playing along, or we take . . . further steps.”
“Further steps?” I repeated. That sounded like a threat. “What does that mean? And why do I have to follow your rules?”
Noriko leaned back in her chair. “How long have you and your friend been aware of the links, Maggie Hetzger?”
I thought. “A little over a day, I guess.” Was that really all? It already felt like so much longer.
“And you’re probably pretty excited about what you’ll be able to do with them in a week or even a month from now, right?”
I nodded. If Abby and I weren’t playing nightly galactic conquest games in the downtown library within two weeks, it wouldn’t be my fault.
“Great,” said Noriko. “Well, just for some perspective, I built my first linked fort and joined the Forts of the Eastern Seaboard five years ago. Everyone here has just a little more experience with this whole pillow fort world than you do, so you can trust us to know what’s best.”
“Five years?” I echoed. I was starting to feel like a parrot. “How do you even keep a pillow fort up for that long?”
Ben snorted, then choked on his mouthful of popcorn. Murray threw another marshmallow at him and gave me an encouraging smile.
“There are benefits to joining the Alliance, Maggie Hetzger,” said Noriko. “A group like this doesn’t exist for over three centuries without picking up a few tricks.”
“Three centuries?!” It was official. I was a parrot.
Miesha raised her hand. “Hey, how about we just skip ahead to the tour? That way all these questions can get answered at once.”
“Yes,” said Noriko, pointing at Miesha. She looked around the table. “Who wants to give the tour and standard history lesson?”
“Ooh! Me!” Murray threw his hand in the air. “I’ll do it!”
Miesha put a hand over her mouth to cover her smile.
Ben held up his pen. “Point of order. Newcomers aren’t supposed to learn the history of NAFAFA until they’ve agreed to the entrance requirements, and this applicant still hasn’t done that.”
“Oh, I don’t think a tour will hurt,” said Noriko. “Besides, we need to talk about the you-know-what before this meeting can go any further. And since I think we can already tell which way Murray’s going to vote ”—Murray’s forehead went pink—“the rest of us can stay here and talk about Maggie behind her back in peace.”
Ben scowled, but he didn’t object again as Murray got to his feet and led the way down the steps.
I followed, then glanced back as everyone around the table began talking at once. Were they really talking about me, like Noriko said? Why? And what were these “entrance requirements” I was supposed to agree to? They sounded downright ominous.
I turned and hurried after Murray, wondering exactly what sort of adventure I was getting myself into.
Eight
“Sorry about all this,” said Murray, pointing to the workers on the ceiling as I caught up to him. “We don’t usually do introductions on maintenance days, but you all are a bit of a special case.”
“In what way?” I asked. But before he could answer there was a shout from the maze to our right.
“Murray! Murray! Murray-Murray-Murray!” A tall boy with shiny black hair launched himself out of a cluster of forts and wrapped Murray in an enormous hug. “It’s been weeks! How’s my favorite capitaine?”
“Oof! Bobby! How’s it going?”
“Excellent!” said the kid. He locked Murray in another squeeze, then let him go and turned to me, beaming. “Who’s your friend? Are you giving a tour? Which network is she in?”
“Her own,” Murray said, catching his breath. “West coast!”
I had no idea what that meant, but the new boy looked very impressed. He held out a hand.
“Bobby,” he said, dropping his voice low.
“Maggie,” I said.
“Enchanté.” Bobby gave a deep bow as we shook.
“Show-off,” Murray said, grinning. He turned to me. “Bobby’s in my network. He’s from Montreal.”
“Montreal by way of Taiwan,” added Bobby, holding up a finger. He dropped his voice so deep he sounded like a movie preview. “Bobby is a global phenomenon.”
“Nice,” I said, smiling. “I’m from Seattle. By way of, um, Seattle.”
“Nice!” Bobby said. “And this is your first visit to the Hub?” His already-beaming face lit up even more. “Hey, do you want to see the coolest thing ever in the history of the world?”
“Um, sure.”
“Hooray! Capitaine?”
Murray gave a thumbs-up, and Bobby led us off the path to a boxy fort made of navy-blue sheets decorated with stars. We all ducked inside.
It was a neat, simple fort, with matching blue pillows lining the walls, a beanbag chair with a stack of comic books beside it, and twinkle lights strung around the ceiling. Bobby pulled down one of the pillows, set it aside, winked at me using his entire face, and disappeared through the link.
I crawled after him, feeling the soft carpet of the fort give way to the bouncy, smooshy squashiness of a deep pile of pillows. A very deep pile of pillows. It was almost pitch-black in the new fort, but as my arm sank up to the elbow I could tell this place would put Fort Comfy to shame.
“Where are we?” I whispered, trying to get my feet under me. My elbow knocked against something hard.
“Ouch,” breathed Murray.
“Oop, sorry!” I reached out a hand to steady myself, and my fingers brushed a b
lanket wall, then stopped. Whoa. I pressed my whole hand to the fabric. There was a real wall behind it.
“Bobby,” I said, reaching out with my other hand. Okay, there was a wall on my other side, too. “Where exactly”—my palm pressed flat just above my head—“are we?” Coolest thing in the history of the world or not, if we were boxed in a tiny crawl space or storage tank somewhere, I was getting out right now.
A faint light gleamed from the other end of the fort, showing Bobby’s broad smile. Seriously, it was like he and Murray were competing for the World’s Smiliest Tour Guide Award. “Come and see,” he whispered. I squished my way through the pillow pile, keeping a firm mental grip on the exit, and heaved myself up beside him.
We were looking out an oval opening, just large enough for one of us to scramble through. Two rows of pale plasticky nubs curved around the inside, with thick rails of the same material arcing out in front on either side of— hold on—those were teeth, and those were tusks, and that meant . . . I pushed past Bobby and stuck my head through the gap.
We were inside a woolly mammoth. And the woolly mammoth was inside a museum.
Dim lights lit up glass display cases, dioramas, skeletons, and life-size furry models like the one we were snuggled up in. A fancy banner over the wall across from us read:
THE AGE OF THE MEGAFAUNA
Everything was still. We must have been the only ones in the entire museum. This was spectacular.
I craned my neck to see around the mammoth’s side, and found myself face-to-face with an enormous stuffed moose. Its glass eyes glittered at me from beneath its sweeping antlers. My heart twinged. Abby would have loved to see this.
I crawled back inside the mammoth’s belly.
“Isn’t this the very greatest?” asked Bobby as my eyes readjusted to the gloom. “We came here on a class field trip when I was nine, and I wanted to know what was inside all the animals, so I just grabbed a tusk and climbed on in. I got in loads of trouble, but I’m glad I did it, because as soon as I joined the Northern Alliance, I was able to build a fort right inside Basil here. That’s what I named him.”
“Hi, Basil,” I said, patting the wall beside me. “But how on earth did you get all these cushions and blankets and everything in here without getting caught?” It must have been a planning nightmare. This mammoth was literally stuffed with pillows.
“I camped out,” said Bobby. “It was super fun, actually. I brought the starter blanket and pillows in a backpack and hid in the bathroom until everyone was gone for the night, then climbed in here just like I did when I was nine. Once Basil was linked in to my Northern Alliance fort, it was easy to bring the rest of the blankets and pillows in through the link.”
Of course. That was brilliant. “So do you all run around the museum at night whenever you want?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Bobby said. “No one in the world knows this museum better than us.” He sat up. “Hey, do you want a tour? I can show you the best exhibits right up close, and we can slide down the marble railings, and try on all the sweatshirts in the gift shop, and jump in the fountain if you want!”
“Thanks, Bobby,” Murray said, “but we’re already doing the new member tour here. And if we don’t get a move on, I’ll be in trouble for holding up the rest of the Council.”
Bobby slumped dramatically against the pillow pile.
“Fiiiine,” he said. “But I’m going to go splash in the fountain for a bit. You two have fun!”
“Thanks for showing me Basil,” I said.
“It was an honor meeting you,” said Bobby. We shook hands, I got another full-face wink, and Murray and I headed back through the blue-star fort to the Hub.
“So,” said Murray as we got to our feet. “That’s Bobby.”
“He’s great!” I said. “Is everyone in your network like that?”
“Oh, no, there’s only one Bobby,” said Murray. “But my network is the most fun of the four. Everyone knows that.”
Murray led the way back into the crowded maze of the floor, throwing out waves and greetings, and stopped at the far wall, where a tall red-and-gold tapestry hung between two mismatched pillows.
“What’s this?” I asked, poking the fabric. The gold threads shimmered in the light from the chandelier. “How can a tapestry be a link?”
“It can’t,” said Murray. “The tapestry doors”—he spun in a circle and pointed to five other points along the wall—“are just regular doors. The rooms behind them are right here, part of the Hub.”
“Wow,” I said, craning my neck to look around at the massive space again. “So where exactly are we? A fort this size must be hidden inside a stadium or airport or something.”
Murray beamed at me. “I asked that same question on my first tour,” he said. “Don’t worry—you’ll find out in good time, eh? Come on.” He pulled the tapestry aside and waved me through.
We stepped into a long, quiet hall lit with hanging lamps. It was super fancy. Gilded mirrors ran along each side, reflecting the polished wood floor and the walls and ceiling of pale sky-blue sheets. In front of each mirror was a short marble column with a different pillow on top. The whole place felt like an art museum, and I automatically put my hands behind my back as I leaned forward to read a plaque set under the first pillow, a dingy square with a cross-stitch pattern of daffodils.
NEW YORK, 1897. ANNA ELEANOR ROOSEVELT.
“Okay, so this is where the tour actually starts,” said Murray. He coughed, grinned, coughed again, and went on in a formal, tour-guide voice. “As Noriko told you, the story of NAFAFA goes back a very long way. This hall is where we preserve and display significant pillows from our pillow fort history, just as other networks around the world preserve theirs.”
“Wait, there are other pillow fort groups around the world?” I said, standing up straight. “Seriously?”
“Of course. One Alliance for each continent except Antarctica. And they all keep their own records and histories. Every pillow in this room is from a North American fort. Well, with one exception.”
I whistled. This. Was. Awesome. Murray slowly led the way forward, giving me time to examine the different pillows on display: red velvet with white brocade; soft silver corduroy; worn black denim; rough burlap stuffed with straw; canvas painted with galloping horses.
“I recognize a lot of these names,” I said, stopping at a plaque above a plain yellow square.
CALIFORNIA, 1939. NORMA JEANE MORTENSON, LATER MARILYN MONROE.
“Yup,” said Murray. “These pillows are all from former NAFAFA members who went on to do great things in the world. Their pillows are here to remind us of what we can do with our lives if we try. Everyone who joins NAFAFA dreams of having a pillow here someday.”
“And that happens if you grow up and do something important?”
“Exactly. Not that you’ll ever get to see it. Adults aren’t allowed anywhere near the networks unless there’s a life-or-death emergency, not even former members. We send a coded message and a nice plaque to people who get accepted, though, so they know. Look, here’s someone who got in a bit more recently.”
He led me over to a beautiful little pillow quilted in pink and blue roses.
TENNESSEE, 1955. ARETHA FRANKLIN.
“Hey, I know who that is,” I said. “She’s a singer. I like her.”
“Everyone knows who she is,” said Murray. “And she performed her first concert right here.”
“In this hall?”
“In this hall.”
I whistled again. “So this pillow is from . . .”
“Her first fort,” said Murray. “When you age out of the network—which happens when you turn thirteen—you choose a pillow from your first fort and hand it in to the record keepers. It’s stored in the pillow library, and once a year the Council goes through the pillows from exactly fifty years before and votes on whether any should get their own column.”
“What happens if they get voted down?” I asked.
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��Then they’re released back into the wild,” said Murray.
“The wild?”
“Junk shops, garage sales, that sort of thing.”
I gazed up and down the hall. All these people, all these legends had started out as kids with pillow forts, just like me, and gone on to change the world. I looked down at the closest plaque. That could be my name someday. I could have a pillow here on my very own personal column. And years from now some future kid being led down this hall could stop to read my name and say, “Hey, I’ve heard of Maggie Hetzger!” and be amazed that I had been here too, right where they were standing.
I shook my head as the first curl of wind ran through my hair. I had to stay in the present, and there was something nagging at my secret-agent senses.
“What did you mean earlier?” I asked. “About every pillow here being from a North American fort except one. What’s the one?”
“The next stop on our tour,” said Murray. He led the way to the end of the hall, where a pillow made of green-and-gold velvet was set into the wall at floor level. It looked faded and fragile, and some big patches of fabric were missing.
“What’s so special about this old thing?” I said. Murray shushed me and leaned down. Gently, reverently, he pulled the velvet pillow aside and crawled through the link.
I followed on my hands and knees—there was barely enough room to squeeze in—and immediately banged my head on something hard.
“Ouch!” I dropped flat, rubbing my skull. “Murray, what is this?”
“Easy!” said Murray. “Stop moving or you’ll damage it. Just hold still until I’m out, then come through on your right.”
I heard shuffling ahead of me, then footsteps. There was a whooshing noise, and a dim light appeared. I slithered awkwardly toward it and emerged, covered in dust, from under what turned out to be a dirty, broken-down sofa the same color as the ancient pillow.
“Whew!” I said, brushing myself off. “That was dramatic. Where are we now?”
We were in a small, old-fashioned room. Sunlight streamed through a delicate window high on the wall, lighting up the dust in the air from the velvet curtains Murray had just pulled open. The room looked as if it had once been fancy, with paneled-wood walls, a patterned-marble floor, and a heavy carved door opposite the window, but it had definitely seen better days.