The Lost Track of Time
Page 7
“Go on, go on,” urged Dill.
Penelope took a deep breath and let the words rush out. “Turning into a
Clockworker and never moodling again!”
“Horrible, horrible, horrible!” Dill leapt to his feet and began to run
around, snatching things from closets and cabinets — bits of rope, flashlights,
boots, and hammers.
“Imprisonment! Starvation! Pneumonia!” He dashed off to the next room
and came charging back with several boxes of tissues, which he threw onto the
growing pile.
“We’re almost ready now,” he said and disappeared into the hall closet.
“Ready for what?” asked Penelope.
Dill emerged from the closet, holding a stepladder and an inflatable raft.
“What do you mean, ‘for what?’ We’ve got a lot of disastrous matters to take
care of.”
Penelope scrunched down in her chair. “Not really,” she said. “Nothing
actually happened.”
Dill dropped the stepladder. “Nothing?”
Penelope shook her head.
“Absolutely nothing?”
Penelope shook her head again.
“You’re telling me, you stayed up half the night for no good reason?”
“I had plenty of reasons!” insisted Penelope. “You saw me try the moodle
hat. I’m useless. I’ll never be able to help you find the Great Moodler or fend off
Chronos and his Clockworkers if they find out I’m here.”
“Worrying won’t change all that. By the way, I think they’re spreading,”
said Dill, pointing at her neck.
Penelope checked. Sure enough, there were more bumps. “What am I
going to do?” she cried.
“Stop worrying. They’re bound to go away.”
“When?” Penelope demanded.
Dill’s muffled voice came from inside the closet, where he was busily
putting away everything he’d just taken out. “It should only take a few
hours . . . or a few days.”
“A few days?” Penelope couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
Dill popped out of the closet and tried shoving it closed with his
shoulder. “To be honest,” he said, huffing and puffing, “I have no idea how long
it will take. I’ve never had worry warts myself, so I’m not sure what the cure is.”
“You don’t know what the cure is?” POP! POP! POP! Penelope’s face and neck
erupted in a fury of red bumps.
“Nope,” said Dill and gave the door a final shove. There was a muffled
crash before it clicked obediently closed.
“Can’t you think of something?” Penelope pleaded.
“Well,” said Dill, drumming his fingers on his chin. “I can certainly give
it a try.”
Penelope watched him, holding her breath, trying not to worry.
“Pirates!” Dill suddenly shouted.
Penelope looked around quickly. “Where?”
“Not here,” said Dill. “Last night, in your worries. Did they show up?”
“No . . .”
“How about tigers? Did you worry about them?”
“Of course not. That’s ridiculous.”
Dill flung open his arms. “There you have it!”
“What do I have?” Penelope said each word very carefully. She was fight-
ing the urge to throw the mirror at him.
“The cure!”
Penelope looked at her reflection. The worry warts hadn’t gone any-
where. “What are you talking about?” she practically screamed.
“If you got the warts by worrying about all the bad things that could have
happened, then the best way to get rid of them is to think about all the bad
things that couldn’t have happened. It’s like worrying, but in reverse.”
Penelope stared at Dill, her eyes bulging. Who ever heard of worrying in
reverse?
“Here, let me help,” he continued. “What’s your least favorite thing?”
“Snakes,” she answered immediately. That was an easy one.
“Well, then,” urged Dill, “tell me something about snakes that couldn’t
possibly have happened last night.”
Penelope thought about it for a moment. “I didn’t get squeezed to death by
a python?” It was really more of a question.
“You’re a very lucky girl,” said Dill, his voice deep and serious.
Penelope thought she might have felt a slight tingling sensation in her face.
Either the worrying in reverse was working, or she was just embarrassed.
“Go ahead,” prompted Dill. “What’s another awful thing you didn’t have
to worry about?”
“I didn’t fall into a pit.”
“Or get snapped in two by sharks,” Dill added helpfully.
Penelope couldn’t help but giggle. “Or swept away by a dust storm . . .”
“Or drowned in a whirlpool. Or run over by an elephant.”
“Or frozen inside a glacier!”
By now Penelope’s cheeks were burning hot, but she kept going. “I didn’t
get captured by headhunters . . .”
“Or eaten by cannibals . . .”
“Or thrown into a bed of scorpions!”
“It’s working!” shouted Dill, pointing at her face.
Penelope held up the mirror, turning it this way and that. She watched as
the last remaining wart faded from bright red to soft pink to the same creamy
color as her skin. Then, just like that, it was gone.
“Congratulations!” said Dill, giving Penelope’s hand a firm shake. “It’s
official. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
chapter eight
Penelope sank back into her chair with relief. The heat from her face melted
away, flooding her body with a warm, relaxed feeling. So this was what it
felt like to have nothing to worry about.
“Up, up, up!” demanded Dill, clapping his hands.
Penelope, who had just been contemplating going back to bed, didn’t budge.
“We’ve got a sunrise to catch,” he insisted. “You don’t want to miss it.”
Penelope dragged herself to her feet. She followed Dill down the front
hall, up the ladder, and out into the cool dark of early morning. But instead of a
sun peeking through the trees, they were met by a stark gray sky.
“That’s strange,” said Dill. “The sun should be here by now.”
“Maybe we’re up too early.” Penelope stifled a yawn. “Maybe it’s actually
still nighttime.”
“If it’s nighttime, then where are the stars? No, no, no. Something is
definitely wrong. Awry. Out of order.”
Penelope looked at the sky. She suddenly felt an odd chill that had nothing
to do with the temperature. It seemed to come from her own bones. She
remembered the rain cloud Dill had pointed out yesterday and how it had
continued to move even after the wind had grown still. How it had blackened
the sky and filled her with dread. She felt that same dread now.
Dill must have felt it, too. He turned to Penelope, his face white. “We’ve
got to go. They’ll be here soon. Swarms of them.”
“Swarms of what?” asked Penelope, suddenly awake.
“Clockworkers. That’s no cloud,” he said, pointing upward. “That’s the
Shadow.”
“The Shadow from Chronos City?” Penelope couldn’t believe what she
was hearing. “What’s it doing here?”
“I have no idea, but whatever the reason, it can’t be good. We’ve got to get
&nbs
p; out of here until it passes.” Dill hurried back down the ladder and Penelope
scrambled after him.
“Where will we go?” she asked as Dill flung odds and ends into a
backpack.
“The mountains.” Dill’s voice was grim, his jaw clenched. “I know a short-
cut through the woods to the Range of Possibilities. We’ll be halfway there
before the Clockworkers reach my meadow. But only if we act fast.” He began
rifling through drawers and stuffing his many pockets with provisions.
“What about finding the Great Moodler?” Despite all her worries,
Penelope wasn’t ready to abandon her search.
“The Great Moodler will have to wait.” Dill hoisted the pack over his
shoulder. “We’ll never find her if we’re imprisoned in the clock tower. Now
come on.”
Once outside, Dill and Penelope took off across the meadow. Penelope
practically had to run to keep up with Dill’s long strides. When they reached
the far end of the clearing, a wild, overgrown hedge blocked their way. An
ancient wooden sign pointed directly at the impenetrable mass of bushes and
brambles. Penelope could just make out the words:
this way to the naughty woulds.
She stifled a laugh. “Shouldn’t that say, ‘This way to the Knotty Woods’?”
Dill looked at the sign and then back at Penelope. “That’s exactly what it
says. ‘This way to the Naughty Woulds.’ ”
“No, it says, ‘naughty,’ but woods aren’t naughty, they’re ‘knotty.’ And
what are ‘woulds’? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“Well, you have now.” Dill walked up to the
sign and gave it a heave. “Help me out, will
you? No use telling the Clockworkers
which way we’ve gone.” Together they were
able to pull the sign out of the ground. Once
they’d hidden it under a bush, Dill found
a shrub peppered with little red berries
and pulled back one of its branches.
“After you,” he said with a
quick bow.
Penelope leaned forward. A dark tunnel opened out in front of her.
Thorny brambles crowded the tunnel as if trying to take it back, and a dank,
musty smell filled the air. A path ran forward a few feet and then, with a sharp
twist, disappeared.
“Are you sure this is the right way?” she asked, looking up at Dill.
“Of course I’m sure! Going around the Woulds takes days and days. If
we want to stay ahead of the Clockworkers, there’s nothing to do but go
through them.”
“Maybe you should go first,” said Penelope.
“All right, then.” Dill stepped inside and Penelope followed. Once they
were both inside, he let the branch drop. What little light there was vanished
and the air suddenly seemed to thicken. “I recommend you stay on the path,”
whispered Dill. “You don’t want to go wandering around.”
“Don’t worry,” Penelope whispered back. “I won’t.”
They set off together through the tunnel. Penelope had to hunch down in
order to pass, while poor Dill was practically doubled over at the waist. Branches
caught their sleeves and hair like long fingers, and they often had to stop and
untangle themselves.
Even though the hedge seemed determined to block their path, it eventu-
ally opened out into an ancient forest packed with trees. Gnarled branches
drooped down across their way and moss hung from every surface. Faint strips
of dusty light illuminated the path, which was nearly hidden under a carpet of
decaying leaves.
Dill led the way through the woods, humming and pointing out patches
of mushrooms growing here and there. Some were light with dark spots,
others were dark with light spots, but most were a dull yellow color with
strange, fleshy warts. A very few were a translucent white with bright orange
underneath. These were Penelope’s favorites, but Dill cautioned her against
touching them.
“Those will give you an incurable case of the hiccups,” he said and then
returned to his humming.
Every so often Dill would stop to examine the mushrooms and once or
twice he plucked a smaller whitish one, tucking it into one of the pockets
covering his jacket. “Just a little something for later,” he explained. “Ever tried
mushroom-and-halibut goulash?”
“No,” said Penelope, hoping she never would.
“How about acorn-and-mushroom pâté?”
“No.”
“Mushroom loaf with horseradish sauce?”
“No.”
“Pickled mushrooms with prunes?”
“Definitely not!”
Dill shook his head. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”
“How do you know so much about mushrooms?” Penelope asked.
“How come you know so little?”
“I never paid attention to them, even in science camp when I was supposed
to. I thought they were gross,” admitted Penelope.
“Mushrooms are not gross. They’re wonderful. Fabulous. Absolutely
marvelous. Back when I was searching for the Remote Possibility, I would
have starved if it weren’t for mushrooms. No matter where I was, I could find a
mushroom or two to eat. When I returned from my adventure, I decided to
grow them myself. That’s why I’ve come up with so many recipes. I could eat
mushrooms for breakfast, lunch, and . . .” Dill suddenly stopped and his voice
dropped to a whisper. “Do you see what I see?”
Penelope lowered her voice as well. “What?”
“There! Look at the foot of that tree. The big one, far in the distance.”
Penelope could see a cluster of tall, thin trees to her right. Beyond them
stood an ancient oak with a trunk as big around as a house. Something glowed
faintly among the oak’s huge roots. “What are those glowing things?” she asked.
“Mushrooms. Very rare, very delicious mushrooms. Stay right where you
are. I’ll be back.” Dill stepped off the path and darted through the trees.
“Where are you going?” Penelope called out after him.
“To pick them, of course!”
Penelope watched as Dill skipped over the fallen branches and snaking
roots that covered the ground. Just before he reached the great tree, he stopped
and looked over his shoulder. “I almost forgot,” he yelled at Penelope. “Whatever
you do, keep up the humming until I get back.” Dill stepped behind the tree’s
giant trunk and was gone.
Penelope pondered his instructions. What was so important about hum-
ming? She tried humming a few bars of “Yankee Doodle.” When she did, she
felt the silence of the forest push against her, and her humming grew softer and
softer until it died away altogether. A hush settled around her like a heavy
blanket, pressing against her chest. At that moment, Penelope heard, almost
imperceptibly, something that sounded like whispering. She strained to listen.
There it was — voices in the distant background. Penelope scanned the forest,
trying to locate the source of the sound, but all she saw were trees. They loomed
over her, backs hunched, leaves limp.
Penelope closed her eyes and listened harder. The voices grew louder.
The whispering was more like murmuring now. It
seemed to be coming from
directly above her. Penelope opened her eyes and thought she saw a slight
movement in the branches, but couldn’t be sure. She suddenly had the feeling
she was being watched.
That’s when the voices started in earnest.
The first voice was raspy and high-pitched, like the sound of an old
woman. “Wouldn’t it be better if she weren’t such a scatterbrain?” it cackled.
“Wouldn’t it be better if she were smarter?” said a second voice, much like
the first.
“Wouldn’t it be better if she were more organized?” chimed a third.
“Wouldn’t it be better if she were more efficient?” said the fourth.
“It would! It would!” they all exclaimed together.
Penelope stood very still, listening. Were the voices talking about her? She
looked back up at the trees. There it was again! That little flicker of movement
that disappeared when it caught her eye.
“I think we can all agree,” said the fourth voice, louder than before, “that
if she weren’t such a scatterbrain, she would be more productive . . .”
“She would be more useful . . .”
“She would be more successful . . .”
“She would be more competitive . . .”
Penelope’s mouth dropped open. They were talking about her! But who,
exactly, were they? She felt a sharp branch — or was it a finger? — graze her
back. Penelope whirled around. There wasn’t anything there — except a tree.
Was it closer than before? She heard a snickering sound behind her and spun
back to face the way she’d come. The tree in front of her was closer, too! All of
the trees looked like they were leaning over her, pushed by a strong wind.
Except there was no wind. The air was perfectly still.
Just then, the voices started again. This time they were screaming.
“If I were you, I would be ashamed of myself!”
“I would be embarrassed to show my face in public!”
“I would never leave the house!”
Penelope tried to run away, pushing against the branches that now blocked