by Paige Britt
up she went. The steam was thicker than expected and surprisingly easy to
scoop up. Inside her mouth it swelled to twice its original size and then burst
into a series of delicate flavors: savory cream sauce, then toasted cheese, and
finally vanilla ice cream with a tinge of hazelnut.
Neither of them said a word until the last bit of soufflé was gone. When
they were finished, they sat down on their chairs with heavy sighs.
“That was amazing,” said Penelope.
Dill let out a lavender-colored burp. “Thank you. I came up with the idea
to make a soufflé so light you could only eat the steam, but I had the hardest
time figuring out the recipe. The steam kept turning into soup in midair and
causing the worst soggy mess. Or the soufflé was too light and only a mist
would form. Have you ever tried to eat mist?”
Penelope shook her head.
“Well, I can tell you, it was a disaster. Failure. Total flop.”
“What did you do?”
“I just kept moodling. I came up with hundreds of ideas. Most of
them were too small, but I kept at it and after a while I moodled up a
few big ones. With some tinkering, I turned those big ideas into real
possibilities and from there I created my masterpiece — the lightest soufflé
in the world!”
A faraway look crossed Dill’s face and he stared past Penelope into a
memory only he could see. “That was years ago. Years . . . and years . . . long
before moodling was declared illegal . . .”
“What exactly is moodling?” interrupted Penelope, who was itching to
add the word to her collection.
Dill leaned in as if sharing an important secret. “Moodling is daydream-
ing, letting your mind wander, losing track of time, and, in the most severe
cases” — here he mouthed the words — “doing nothing.”
Penelope’s mouth dropped open. She did these things every chance she
could! So did Miss Maddie! “What’s so bad about letting your mind wander
and . . . and . . . doing nothing?” she asked.
“I say, there’s nothing wrong with a bit of moodling — you come up with
the most interesting ideas that way. But you can only do it if Chronos isn’t
around. If he sees you, he’ll send the Clockworkers to snatch you up and take
you to the tower just like that.” Dill snapped his fingers.
“Clockworkers!? Tower?” Penelope’s voice was a high-pitched squeak.
“I can see it’s time to tell you the story of the Great Moodler.” Dill looked
around the room quickly, as if they might not be alone. Once he seemed
satisfied that no one was around, he continued, “Listen closely, but whatever
you do, don’t repeat a word. Your life just might depend upon it.”
the story of the great moodler
Once upon a time, so long ago I don’t remember when, the Great Moodler
was known far and wide for being exactly that — a great moodler. When most
people moodle, they come up with a few ideas, but not the Great Moodler.
She came up with real possibilities.
First she would moodle on the smallest, faintest notion. Soon it would
blossom into an idea. With constant moodling, her ideas took flight, soaring
overhead and colliding with one another until sparks flew. From the sparks, her
ideas caught fire, streaking into the sky and exploding with possibilities.
In those days, possibilities fell to the ground like rain. Each one was a bril-
liant bit of light, etched with a message. “It’s a possibility,” people would say
whenever they found one and, if they liked what it said, they’d
pop it into their mouths and chew on it. Everyone was full of
possibilities in those days — full to the point of bursting.
Most possibilities were quite ordinary, such as,
Tomorrow it will rain. But some were intriguing and
delicious, such as, There’s a man in the moon or You
can fly. People loved these possibilities the most.
Whenever someone discovered one, rather than chew
chapter five
on it, they would sit right down and consider it. When they did, the possibility
would grow. Sometimes it grew a little bit and sometimes a lot, but on the
average most possibilities were about the size of a watermelon.
One night the Great Moodler had trouble sleeping. She got out of bed and
stared up at the stars, moodling on the mysteries of life. When she did, a tiny
possibility began to take shape. Even though it was very small, it was brighter
and more beautiful than anything ever seen. It was like a sliver of the sun — so
dazzling the night around it turned to day.
When the possibility took flight, people woke from their dreams and
rushed outside to see what it was. They stared up in awe at the brilliant
possibility, waiting for it to fall to the ground so they could consider it. But
instead of falling, it streaked across the heavens like a meteor and disappeared
from view.
Everyone was crushed. What was this possibility? What did it say? The
very next day, explorers set out to find it. Because it was lost in some distant
land, they called the treasure they were seeking the Remote Possibility. For
years explorers trudged across deserts, slogged through swamps, and hacked
their way through jungles, but the Remote Possibility was never found. One by
one the explorers gave up their search and the Remote Possibility moved from
memory into legend.
One explorer, though, never gave up. He climbed up the highest
mountains and down the deepest valleys in all four directions. When the
Remote Possibility remained hidden, he searched harder and farther, traveling
into the forgotten corners of the world.
One day while tramping through a rocky wasteland, surrounded by noth-
ing but the dust and debris of a long-dead volcano, the explorer saw a glimmer
on the ground up ahead. He was hungry and thirsty and his vision was blurred
from exhaustion, but the light refused to fade. Was it a mirage? Or had he finally
found what he’d been searching for?
Anything is possible, he told himself and pushed on toward the light. As he
drew closer, the faint glimmer became a glow.
Anything is possible, he said again, putting one exhausted foot in front of the
other. The light grew brighter still, turning the pebbles in its shadow into
diamonds.
Once the treasure was finally within reach, the explorer bent down to
pick it up. When he did, he let out a cry. For etched in the light were his very
own words!
Anything is possible.
The explorer knew his search was over — the Remote Possibility had
been found. He set off for home immediately, carrying his discovery with him.
When he reached the border of the wasteland, he met a group of travelers. He
shared the Remote Possibility with them, and as he did, the possibility began to
grow. This in and of itself wasn’t strange — that’s what possibilities did. The
strange thing was how much it grew. And grew. And grew. In just a matter of
moments, it was the size of a bush, then a boulder.
“I can’t believe it!” said one of the travelers.
“Anything is possible, I suppose,” said another. And they all had to agree
it was true. The proof was right in front of them.
By now the Remote Possibility was much too big for the explorer to carry,
so he sent the travelers for help. But when help arrived, they had never seen a
possibility so large and immediately began to consider it themselves. Of course,
when they did, it grew even larger. Soon it was the size of a hill.
Word spread rapidly, and more and more people flocked to the wasteland.
“Anything is possible,” they would say when they saw the glittering mound of
light. Up, up, up! The Remote Possibility grew bigger still until it was taller
than the tallest mountain and wider than the sea.
By now the possibility was so large that people began to wonder what to
do with it. Should they climb it? Dance around it? Chip it into pieces? They had
no idea, but they knew someone who would — the Great Moodler.
The Great Moodler was a very gifted problem solver. It didn’t matter if it
was a big problem (like how to build a bridge to a rainbow) or a little problem
(like how to catch a cricket), the Great Moodler would come up with a solution.
But when she saw the Remote Possibility, even she was overwhelmed.
She moodled all day and all night. Hundreds of tiny notions streamed
from her head and ideas bounced back and forth, but no real possibilities formed.
So she moodled away the next day and the next night, too. Finally, after a week
of almost constant moodling, a big idea began to take shape. Everyone held their
breath, watching as she turned the idea this way and that. Suddenly it spun into
the air and exploded with possibilities. The crowd cheered and the Great
Moodler stood to announce her solution.
“This is what you must do with the Remote Possibility . . .” she shouted.
The crowd grew silent, waiting for the answer.
“Live with it!”
Everyone was stunned. This wasn’t the answer they were expecting. But
the more they considered it, the more it made perfect sense. The Remote
Possibility was so wonderful, so beautiful, they should build their lives around
it. And that’s what they did.
The Great Moodler quickly built a home on top of the gleaming mountain
of light. She named the land in all four directions the Realm of Possibility. At
the foot of the mountain, the people created a city that was beautiful beyond
belief. The buildings were curvaceous and fanciful and went straight up into the
clouds. The roads were long and winding and always followed the scenic route.
People planted fruit trees along the highways to encourage musing and munch-
ing on the way to Wherever.
The city sat on one side of the Remote Possibility and the wasteland where
it had been found sat on the other. The wasteland, however, was no longer a
wasteland. The rocks and boulders bloomed in the light of the Remote Possibility
and became grand mountains in their own right. But these mountains were no
ordinary mountains. Instead of being brown or gray, like you might expect, they
were blue, orange, green, pink, yellow — every color of the rainbow! People
called them the Range of Possibilities and climbed their heights to reach the sun.
The Realm was a peaceful, beautiful place until one day a stranger came
walking down the road. He carried nothing with
him except a mysterious black book and a gold
pocket watch. His name was Chronos and he
had come to the Realm to make his mark.
Chronos immediately built himself a
giant home made of concrete and
steel. He called his
home, which was
really more of a fortress, the Timely Manor.
It held twenty-four rooms, one for each
hour in the day. The rooms were dark
and windowless and filled with ticking
clocks. The outside walls were topped with
a parapet where grim-faced Clockworkers marched day and night. No one knew
exactly where the Clockworkers had come from, but one thing was sure —
they lived to serve their master.
The Manor surrounded a central courtyard from which a tremendous
clock tower rose. The tower had four clocks — one for each direction of the
compass. Chronos was a proud man and he soon became jealous of the Great
Moodler’s place of importance. He believed the Realm was overrun with use-
less daydreamers and the Remote Possibility was nothing but a silly notion. He
would often stand on the parapet and read aloud from his black book, shouting
down to the people in the streets below. The book was filled with time-saving
tips and words to live by, but most people ignored them. This made Chronos
furious, so he came up with a plan.
In those days, the clock tower was a novelty, and no one paid it much
mind. Everyone was too busy moodling to keep track of time. And why should
they? There was time enough for everyone. People took as much as they needed
and never worried about wasting it. Many had time to spare and would share it
with anyone who asked. “There’s no present like time,” they’d say and give away
minutes, hours, even days to those in need.
Chronos changed all that. Every day he ordered his Clockworkers to wind
the clocks in the tower and every day, time would run out. People began to
watch the clock, first out of curiosity and then in alarm. Time was slipping
away. Soon people began to fight among themselves. “Take your time. Leave
mine alone!” they argued. Neighbors accosted neighbors, demanding borrowed
time back. What little time was left at the end of the day was heavily guarded
lest it be stolen. It didn’t take long before people turned to Chronos for answers.
They gathered at the Manor and demanded an explanation. “Where has all the
time gone?”
Chronos was prepared. “I’ll tell you where it went,” he roared, pointing
to the Great Moodler’s home on top of the Remote Possibility. “It’s being wasted
by that useless Moodler and by you!” This time he pointed an accusing finger at
the crowd. “You are killing time with all your moodling. If you want more
time, you must do as I say. Immediately!”
This got everyone’s attention. “Killing time!” they said to one
another. “How horrible. This must stop at once!”
They listened closely as Chronos explained
his plan: “The more possibilities you
consider, the less likely you are
to accomplish anything. And
the fewer things you
accomplish, the more time you waste. Therefore, the quickest way to make the
most of your time is to limit the possibilities.” The people looked up at the clock
tower in alarm. Sure enough, Chronos was right. Time was running out. There
wasn’t a minute to waste!
Chronos appointed twelve of his most efficient Clockworkers to a
Committee devoted to making every second count. The first thing
the Committee did was visit the Great Moodler and demand she stop coming
up with new possibilities. “We have quite enough already!” they scolded her.
Next they decided to consider the possibilities they did have and throw
out the ones that were a waste of time. After sifting through millions and
millions of possibilities, they came up wit
h a master list of 3,763. They passed
an amendment to change Anything is possible to 3,763 things are possible.
But they didn’t stop there. Even that wasn’t enough to save time, so they
limited the possibilities even further, and as they did, the list became smaller . . .
2,631
. . . and smaller . . .
1,612
. . . and smaller . . .
497
. . . and smaller still . . .
Until it was decided: 217 things are possible.
Anything struck from the list was deemed “Impossible” and declared
illegal. Chronos established a court to prosecute time wasters and turned the
clock tower into a prison. With only 217 things possible, everyone knew
exactly what they were supposed to be doing and when.
In gratitude for his efforts to save time, the Committee named the great
city at the heart of the Realm after their leader. They called it Chronos City.
Before long, the City outgrew its borders. As it grew bigger and bigger, it grew
uglier and uglier. The Clockworkers shaved the ornamentation off the
buildings, cut down the trees, and straightened the roads — all in the interest
of efficiency.
The odd thing was, however, that no matter how much time people saved,
there never seemed to be enough left over. The more things got done, the faster
time ran out. Whether people were winding up or winding down, the clocks in
the tower were always ticking. Soon the Realm was full of clocks. People
carried them in their pockets, wore them on their wrists, and hung them on
every wall. Before long, everyone’s internal clock — the clock that told them
when to do things in their own time — was completely drowned out.
“There’s no such thing as an internal clock,” scoffed Chronos. “Has anyone
actually ever seen one?” People had to admit that no one ever had, whereas the
clocks in the tower were undeniably real. Before long, people stopped even try-
ing to check their internal clocks. They doubted they had ever had such a thing.
As doubt took hold in their minds, a dark Shadow gathered in the sky. At