Lost Places

by Carla Jablonski

  “She never expected to have anyone stand up to her, I suppose,” Molly said. She knelt down and spoke directly into Vuall’s wrinkled, dried-up face. “You underestimated us,” she told the crone. “After all, I’m just a girl, right?”

  “And I’m just a narl,” Crimple added. “But together we’re formidable.” He grinned up at Molly.

  “So how do we get out of this place and back home?” Molly demanded.

  Vuall stayed silent.

  “I think we’re going to have to persuade her to speak,” Crimple said. “But how do we do that?”

  Molly scanned the dollhouse, wondering if there was something they could use to threaten Vuall. Nothing. Maybe there would be something in the knitting basket. Not a weapon but some precious object of the old bat’s to barter with.

  She rummaged through the knitting basket, finding a bizarre collection of objects: sharp implements and unfamiliar tools crammed in with hairstyling products, makeup, doilies, and cookbooks.

  “I don’t know, Crimple. I don’t know what most of these things are.” She held up a lethal-looking silver item with a retractable blade. “They all look dangerous.”

  “We could experiment,” Crimple suggested.

  “No,” Molly said. “There must be a better way to make her take us home. If we start acting like demons ourselves, we might get stuck here. We might never be able to leave if we become like them. Like her.”

  “Quite right,” Crimple said. He sounded embarrassed by his idea.

  “I am tempted to do something about her hair, though,” Molly said, gazing at Vuall thoughtfully. “Granny always said that wearing a tight bun made her cross, and this is one cross woman we have here.”

  “Did you hear that, you old spider?” Crimple taunted. “Take us home or we’ll prune your hair.”

  “Never!” Vuall retorted. “And the correct phrase is ‘trim’ not ‘prune.’”

  Molly smirked and took another step toward Vuall. “Gee. I guess you’ve never seen a Mohawk.”

  Tim gazed at the heavy book that lay across his knees. Is it some kind of trick? he wondered. How can I meet the troll’s demands to read a story if the pages are all blank?

  A mini Tim landed on the open book and pulled back another page. He peered under it. “Still blank,” he said.

  “Now what?” a little Tim on his shoulder whispered in Tim’s ear.

  Tim glanced at the troll. The squat creature sat back and took a deep drag on his pipe. He seemed quite settled in. I am definitely not going anywhere until this story thing happens.

  Tim sighed. He felt as if he’d arrived in school without realizing there was going to be an exam. And Toll the Troll had the smug expression of someone just waiting to catch a guy making a fool of himself.

  “Uh, could this be the wrong book?” Tim said. He held it up for the troll to see. “All the pages are blank.”

  A little Tim gasped. “Oooh,” he murmured. “You just admitted you can’t see anything in the book. That could be bad.”

  “Oh, you’ll get to your story eventually,” Toll the Troll assured Tim. He didn’t seem surprised or bothered that Tim saw the book’s pages as blank.

  “My story?” Tim’s eyebrows rose as the troll’s words sunk in.

  “Yep. That particular book there, it whips up stories for whoever’s reading it. Different stories for different folks. Personalized, like.”

  The troll patted his huge belly and yawned as if having to explain bored him. “You don’t think I’d swap you a bridge-crossing for a story I could read myself, do you? I need some entertainment!”

  Tim looked around at the landscape and then down below into the troll’s lair. Yeah, he could believe it would get mighty dull around here without telly or video games. Just a lot of darkness and wind and whispering sounds. He ached to escape quickly, to find Molly and get out of there, but he had come to learn that magical journeys often had paths of their own. He had to put one foot in front of the other and find his way out of each particular thicket. And right now, reading a story was how he would walk out of this place in one piece. He hoped.

  Tim flipped through the pages of the book. Eventually he came to a section that had words and pictures, forming themselves right in front of his eyes. The swirling letters and images made him dizzy, so he shut his eyes for a few minutes, hoping they’d fall into place and he could get on with reading the story. He opened them again and saw that everything had arranged itself on the pages.

  “Okay,” he told the troll. “I’ve found it. Let’s get this over with—I have places to be.”

  “Don’t rush the story,” the troll warned. “Tell it nice.”

  Tim cleared his throat. “‘The Boy Who Chose the Sea,’” he announced, reading the title. He ran his finger along the illustration. It was of a sad-looking boy, about his own age, with wings.

  “‘Once upon a time, before the earth and sky and sea had come together, there lived a boy named Vane. In those days the sun did not shine on the earth. The earthfolk had to make their own days by lighting tallow candles. They liked very long candles and very long days because they were afraid of the dark.

  “‘Now, as everyone knows, to deny one’s fears is the fifth easiest thing in the world. Few of the earthfolk would admit that the darkness frightened them. Many would not even talk about their candles, though they thought of little else.

  “‘So most earth children were taught to shut their eyes at bedtime before they blew their candles out. And most boys or girls who asked where the candles came from were sent to bed without any supper. Darkness was a secret they were all keeping.

  “‘But Vane had never learned not to see the dark or question the light. The boy had been raised by an old blind beggar man who did not believe in day or night. He had never seen them.

  “‘Now, as everyone knows, to mistake one’s ignorance for wisdom is the fourth easiest thing in the world. Every night, when the city grew quiet, the blind man sent Vane outside to play. He thought that the boy would be safest then. He never knew how often Vane came home with skinned elbows and knees from being unable to find his way. Or with his wings scraped raw from crawling and falling through dark tunnels.

  “‘One night, when Vane had become even more lost than usual, he saw a light flicker far away. Seeing such a surprising sight, at such an odd hour, made him all but forget the aching of his knees and wings. Vane had always wished that he could meet others who were like him. People who could not sleep when the rest of the world did. People who knew what it was like to have to carry useless, heavy wings on their backs.

  “‘He followed the light until at last Vane came to a building—the largest he had ever seen. He tried its gate, but it was locked, so Vane began to climb it. He had clambered almost high enough to see inside the building when a voice softly whispered in his ear.

  “‘“Stop,” it said. “You have almost climbed too high.”

  “‘Vane looked to see who had spoken to him. No One was there.

  “‘“If you go any further, you will see where the light of this world comes from,” No One whispered. “And you will know why your people fear the dark.”

  “‘“I have always wanted to know these things,” Vane said. “I will keep climbing. But first, tell me, what are you doing with your wings?”

  “‘No One sighed and answered, “What I am doing with my wings is the third easiest thing in the world, but this is not the time to talk about it. Let me tell you what you need to know instead. If you do not turn back now, you will never go home again. You will have to choose between the sky and the sea. If you do not die first, which is the most likely outcome.”

  “‘“What is the sky?” Vane asked. “What is the sea?”

  “‘But No One did not answer. It had used its wings and flown away.

  “‘No One’s warning frightened Vane, but it made him curious, too. So he climbed a little higher and looked down. Inside the building, a big machine was making tallow candles.

 
; “‘It made them out of people who were not afraid of the dark.

  “‘This was the secret that had been hidden.

  “‘This terrified Vane. He climbed down from the gate and ran into the dark.

  “‘As everyone knows, to run when one is lost and frightened is the second easiest thing in the world. Vane ran as fast and as far as he could. So fast and so far that he ran to the edge of the world. There he saw two places he had never seen before. One was like a big hole that went up and up forever. It made Vane feel like he was falling just to look up at the hole. Something whirled out of its vastness and beat savagely against the hole with its wings. It seemed frantic. And at the center of the hole, a monstrous fire was burning. Brighter than a thousand candle flames, its fierce light stabbed Vane’s eyes.

  “‘The other place was very different. It was like a well that went down and down and down. The people who lived there moved as freely as No One had, gliding up and down and around just as they pleased. They did not need candles, or fires. Each glowed with a soft, pale light that seemed to come from inside them—’”

  Tim slammed the book shut. “Let me guess,” he declared. “Vane never figures out how to fly. He jumps in the sea and drowns. Glub, glub, glub. The end.”

  “Yep!”

  “What a ridiculous story,” Tim said, dropping the book to the ground.

  “Is it?” The troll scratched his enormous belly and belched. “The way I see it, you’re Vane and the sky is magic.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “I do say. And the moral of the story is, you’ve got to be where you belong. Don’t resist it or all is lost. You need to keep company with them who’s your kind of folks. Them who understands magic.”

  “Demons, for instance?” Tim scoffed.

  “Yes, indeedy!” Toll the Troll let out a whoop. “Now demons, they—”

  “Shut up!” Tim shouted. “All my life people have been cramming fairy tales down my throat. Do this and you’ll be happy. Do that and you’ll have friends. Be a good little scaredy-cat frog, and someday you’ll turn into a bloody prince!” Tim could feel energy filling him up. He held out his arms and energy crackled through them. He felt surrounded by magic and power.

  “I don’t want to live your rotten old fairy tales. I want to live my own!”

  He unleashed the energy directly at the troll. The bridge snapped, the demon disintegrated, and a shimmering object began to slowly materialize in front of him.

  “Another bridge,” a little Tim gasped.

  “Does this one have a troll, too?” another one asked.

  “That wasn’t a troll, you idiot,” a third Tim snapped. “That was a demon.”

  “It looks like a very nice bridge, but where do you suppose it goes?”

  “To Molly, of course,” another mini Tim replied. “Where else?”

  “That’s right,” Tim said. “To Molly. And I’m doing this on my own.” He waved a hand and poof! poof! poof! He was alone again.

  Only one me, now.

  He truly hoped one of him would be enough.

  Chapter Eight

  TIM STEPPED ACROSS THE new bridge—and into a bizarre scene. He found himself inside a bubblegum-pink dollhouse. In the dim, flickering firelight, he could see that Molly and Crimple had pinned a scrawny old lady to the floor by her earrings. Molly held a wicked pair of gardening shears.

  “Molly, look!” Crimple cried.

  Molly glanced up. “Tim!”

  “Darn,” Tim said. “You don’t need rescuing at all, do you?”

  Molly rolled her eyes. “Is that what you expected? To pop in here to save the day?” She handed the old woman’s shears to Crimple. The movement made the crone wince. “You take care of Vuall,” she instructed the narl. She turned to face Tim. “While I take care of Tim.”

  Tim gulped. He had thought she would be happy to see him. Instead, her brown eyes flashed with fury.

  “Listen,” she snapped. “You’re disappointed that you didn’t get to play hero? Well, let me tell you something. A girl could get herself thoroughly…pinkified if she waited for you to ride to the rescue!”

  “But, uh, Molly, I kind of—”

  Molly cut him off. “I wish we were married,” she said.

  Huh? Has all the pink turned her brain to cotton candy? “Married?” he repeated stupidly.

  “Yes. So I could divorce you!” Molly flung her hands into the air. “Do you have any idea what I’ve gone through? This place is run by demons. Demons!”

  Tim backed up a few steps.

  But Molly wasn’t done yet. “And how did I get here?” she continued, now pacing restlessly. “Was I wicked? Did I make some sort of unholy alliance? No. I’m here because I was your girlfriend. That’s why.”

  She stopped and gulped for air. Tim was pretty sure she hadn’t taken a breath since she started yelling at him.

  “Was?” Tim asked tentatively, as he realized what she had just said.

  “That’s right. Was,” Molly snapped. “I’ve been kidnapped and tea-partied and threatened and instructed. All because you said you were taking me on a picnic. Hah!”

  As much as Molly’s words stung, Tim knew he had to stay focused on what was most important—getting them all out of here alive. “Molly, let me take you home. And you can hate me somewhere safer, all right?”

  Molly turned her back on Tim. Wow. She’s so angry she can’t even look at me, he thought, his heart suddenly feeling thick and heavy. Then he noticed her shoulders shaking slightly. Could she be…crying?

  He was surprised. Molly O’Reilly didn’t even cry the time she fell out of a tree when she was nine years old and broke her arm. For her to be crying now—well, that was big.

  Not that he blamed her. She’d been through a lot, and what had she done to deserve any of it? Nothing—other than making the big mistake of liking him enough to be his girlfriend. She was smart to break up with him.

  “You’re right, Molly,” Tim admitted sadly. “This magic thing—well, it can put people in danger. I didn’t think that through. And I wouldn’t ever want anything bad to happen to you because of me. I’d never forgive myself.”

  Molly turned and faced him, and Tim saw the tears in her eyes. Without a word, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

  Kissed him!

  Molly O’Reilly is kissing me! Tim was so stunned he just stood there, feeling Molly’s warm mouth on his. Then he remembered himself and put his arms around her, too. He kissed her back, knocking his glasses askew as they bumped noses.

  “Stop!” Vuall shrieked. “You beastly children! Stop that right now!”

  “Be quiet, you old hag,” Crimple ordered.

  Vuall moaned, clutching her stomach. “They’re spoiling everything.” She collapsed completely, as if all her energy and strength were draining out of her. “Love can’t exist here. This is a world of demons.”

  Tim pulled away from Molly. “Do you hear something?” he asked, still looking at Molly’s sparkling brown eyes. The tears had vanished, and now all he saw was pure light shining from them.

  Molly grinned. “I think the nasty old biddy objects.”

  “Let her,” Tim said, smiling. “I object to her.”

  He felt a tug on his jeans leg. “Your Openership, look!” Crimple said. “Everything is all—it’s all different now.”

  Tim gazed around the dollhouse. “Whoa,” he murmured. Crimple was right. Bright sunlight streamed into the room, and all the surfaces sparkled. All the hard edges had vanished, replaced by curves, swirls, and hearts. Most astonishing were the flowers. They were everywhere—wreaths on the walls, huge bouquets in vases, and petals underfoot. The place smelled glorious.

  “Crimple—check yourself out!” Tim exclaimed. The narl had sprouted flowers, too! Little buds had appeared on his shoulders, his feet had gone leafy, and the twigs on his head were now topped with colorful daisies.

  Crimple giggled. “I wish Tanger were here,” he said. “This is better th
an spring.”

  Tim felt as if he were standing inside a great big valentine. Only instead of being gross and icky, the way the pink dollhouse had seemed before, the place was now exuberant and happy.

  Tim realized he still held Molly around her waist. He released her and stepped back, taking her hands. “Molly, don’t you think we should get out of here?” Tim said.

  “Why?” Molly asked.

  “Oh, be serious, would you? We’re in a demon’s lair, remember?”

  Molly laughed. “Are we? You could have fooled me! I’ve never seen a place so beautiful.”

  Tim rubbed the back of his neck and grinned. “All right, all right. So it’s not all that demonish in here at the moment,” he admitted, “but I think Tanger is out there wandering around all on his own.”

  “Tanger is here?” Crimple cried. “He left the tree, too?”

  “He came to help me look for you and Molly.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “He was feeling fine the last time I saw him, though he wasn’t as leafy as you.” Tim blinked as he stared at Crimple. Not only had the twiggy little fellow sprouted lush greenery but he now also sported a pair of wings! “Crimple, what’s happening to you?”

  “I meant to ask you that.” He craned his neck, trying to get a look at the wings on his back. “Nothing like this has ever happened in all of narldom.” He scratched his now-mossy chin. “Not that I’m aware of, at any rate.”

  “But how…what changed?” Tim wondered.

  Crimple cocked his head. “Is there a word for what you were doing?” he asked.

  Tim blushed. “You mean, me and Molly? Just now?”

  “Yes.”

  “We could tell you the words, I guess,” Tim said, “but I don’t think any of them would really describe the feelings. If you know what I mean.”

  Crimple nodded. “Well, I think it was that whatever-it-was-ness that made all the flowers appear. And also gave me wings.” Crimple’s brow furrowed as he concentrated, then he jumped up, and within moments he was airborne.

  “Look at Crimple!” Molly exclaimed. “He’s flying!”

  “Well, he does have wings,” Tim pointed out.