The Lost Track of Time

by Paige Britt

  her path. In an instant the earth shifted underneath her and several long, dark

  roots crept up and around her feet. She kicked at them and they recoiled only to

  snap back and wrap tightly around her ankles. Once Penelope was anchored

  to the ground, a thin layer of moss sprouted over her shoes and began to move

  up her legs.

  The voices were laughing now — a horrible screeching sound. Penelope

  brushed desperately at the moss, trying to knock it away, but it only crept

  higher. Penelope’s knees buckled and she slid to the ground. When she did, the

  roots leapt up and wrapped around her wrists. Penelope tried to pull her hands

  free, but the roots were too strong. They held her down as the moss moved

  around her waist, creeping higher and higher with each second.

  Penelope squeezed her eyes closed, fighting back tears. Screams and

  cheers ricocheted through the forest, until . . .

  “Hush!”

  Penelope’s eyes snapped open. Dill was standing over her, shaking his fists

  at the trees. “Mind your own business! You’re nothing but a bunch of bullies!”

  he shouted.

  To Penelope’s complete surprise, the trees fell silent and slowly began to

  melt back into the forest. Their roots, which had so firmly grasped Penelope,

  recoiled from her wrists and ankles.

  Dill knelt down beside her. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I — I think so,” she stammered.

  Dill helped Penelope to her feet and began brushing moss and leaves from

  her clothes. “The trees are really quite pathetic. If you stand up to them, they’ll

  just go away. If you don’t, they’ll ensnare you in their chatter. Wouldn’t it be better

  if she were this, wouldn’t it be better if she were that? Those woulds are troublesome.

  Nasty. Very naughty.”

  “So that’s what you meant by ‘Naughty Woulds’!” said Penelope with a

  shaky laugh. “Now I understand. Why didn’t you warn me?”

  “I didn’t want you to worry,” said Dill. “And, really, there’s nothing to

  worry about.”

  “There’s not? How do you keep them from trapping you?”

  “Humming!” declared Dill, pointing up at the sky as if leading a

  charge.

  “Humming?” Penelope could hardly believe what she was hearing. Humming

  seemed like such a slight defense against the Naughty Woulds.

  “Humming drives away the trees. They can’t catch you if you’re listening

  to your own tune,” he explained.

  Penelope thought about the horrible roots that had gripped her legs and

  arms. They had almost trapped her! She shook the memory loose and looked at

  Dill. “And . . . and what if you don’t listen to your own tune?” she asked softly.

  Dill pointed to a large moss-covered rock on the path ahead. “See

  for yourself.”

  Penelope approached the rock slowly. On closer inspection, she could

  see it wasn’t a rock at all. She could just make out a hunched figure, anchored

  to the ground by moss, its features turned to stone.

  “That’s a person!” cried Penelope.

  “Indeed it is,” said Dill, joining her alongside the figure.

  “But what happened to him?”

  “He listened to the trees and believed them.”

  Penelope took a step back. So did I, she thought, her heart thumping.

  Dill must have read her mind. He put one long arm around her shoulders

  and gave her a quick squeeze. “What are friends for, if they can’t help keep the

  Naughty Woulds at bay? After all, who can say how you would be if things were

  one way or another? All we know is how you are, and how you are is exactly

  how you’re meant to be.”

  Penelope stared up at Dill. He made it sound so simple. The way she was,

  was exactly how she was meant to be. It was the Naughty Woulds that were

  twisted and flawed. Her heart slowed its thumping and she smiled. Dill smiled

  back and then adjusted his coat with a brisk tug. “Ready?” he asked.

  “Ready,” said Penelope.

  Dill set off down the trail humming. This time Penelope joined in.

  Once they reached the edge of the Naughty Woulds, Dill and Penelope burst

  out of the trees and into the day. They were standing on a high, rocky ridge. A

  long valley of waving blue grass opened out below them. Above them, a bright

  open sky hung dotted with clouds. They stood for a moment, taking in the view

  and letting the memory of the dark woods fade.

  Dill pointed to a boulder soaking up the sun. “That’s a perfect place for a

  picnic.” Penelope agreed and together they climbed onto the rock and settled on

  the side facing the valley with the Woulds behind them. Dill took out the

  glowing mushrooms he’d picked in the forest. He popped the cap off one and

  handed it to Penelope. “Eat it quick or the glow will fade,” he urged.

  Penelope put it in her mouth. When the mushroom touched her tongue it

  dissolved, leaving behind a taste that could only be described as warm. The

  warm slipped down her throat and into her stomach, filling her whole body

  with its glow.

  Dill and Penelope sat in silence, savoring the heavenly mushrooms. After

  a moment, Dill let out a gigantic yawn. “These mushrooms always make me

  sleepy. Wake me up in five minutes, would you?” He lay back and closed

  his eyes. In a matter of seconds, Dill’s breathing dropped to a slow rhythm

  and he was asleep. Penelope slipped out her notebook. She might not have any

  chapter nine

  ideas, but at least she would have memories. She wrote about the worry warts

  and the Shadow and the Naughty Woulds and all the amazing mushrooms she’d

  seen. She lost track of time, letting it slip away in the stream of words. She

  didn’t stop writing until she was startled by the sound of Dill’s snoring.

  She stuffed her notebook in her pocket and gave him a gentle shove. “Wake

  up,” she urged, hoping five minutes hadn’t already passed.

  Dill sat up and stretched. “I guess we’d better get going.” A sudden frown

  crossed his face and he pointed back toward the direction they had come. “Will

  you look at that?” he said, scrambling to his feet. “The Clockworkers have

  already reached my meadow.”

  Penelope followed his gaze. From their position high upon the ridge, the

  Naughty Woulds stretched out behind them. Sure enough, the sky on the far

  side of the forest looked heavy and dark.

  Dill grabbed his pack. “I doubt they’ll push on through the Naughty

  Woulds with evening so close, but still, we’d better get going.” He climbed

  down the boulder and offered Penelope a hand. She took it and jumped down to

  the ground.

  “What do the Clockworkers want with your meadow anyway?” she asked.

  Dill shrugged. “It’s a mystery. Puzzle. Complete conundrum. They’re

  always on the lookout for time wasters or moodlers, so maybe . . .”

  “Maybe they’re onto us. . . .” said Penelope, her heart pounding. “Maybe

  they know I’m here.”

  Dill looked at Penelope. Penelope looked at Dill. They both nodded.

  “Let’s get going.”

  Dill turned back toward the valley and pointed to a row of trees on the

  far side. “Beneath those trees there’s a creek we must c
ross, and beyond

  that are the foothills of the Range of Possibilities. With luck we’ll be in the

  mountains for dinner.”

  They scrambled down the ridge and followed a dirt path that zigzagged

  through the valley. Little white flowers were scattered throughout the deep

  grass. The blossoms seemed to perk up and salute them as they passed. Dill

  bobbed his head in greeting to this flower or that. Whenever they reached a

  clump of bushes or a large rock, he came to a halt and motioned for Penelope to

  do the same. Then he would peer under the bush or around the rock as if it were

  hiding something.

  “Are you looking for mushrooms?” asked Penelope.

  “No,” whispered Dill. “Wild Bore.”

  “Wild boar?” Penelope looked around the sunny, flower-filled

  pasture. “Here?”

  Dill waved at her to be quiet. “Keep your voice down. You never know

  where they might be lurking. It’s important to be on guard. They like to sneak

  up on people.”

  Penelope imagined a large hairy pig with tusks tiptoeing after them.

  She fought back the urge to giggle. “How do they sneak up on people?” she

  whispered, trying to sound serious. “Don’t they make a lot of noise grunting

  and snorting?”

  “Oh, no,” insisted Dill. “They’re very sneaky. And fast. If you get caught

  by one, don’t even bother running. Your only hope is to see it coming.”

  “What do you do if you see one?”

  “Start talking. If you say the first word, they’ll leave you alone. If you

  don’t, your only hope is to get a word in edgewise. That usually stops them cold.

  If you can’t do that . . .” Dill shook his head. “Let’s just say, it’s best not to get

  caught in the first place.”

  “Got it,” said Penelope. But she wasn’t sure she did. What good would it

  do to talk to a pig? Wouldn’t it just be better to climb a tree? Penelope decided

  to drop the subject. Arguing with Dill was like arguing with a cat.

  They walked along for some time with Dill stopping every few moments.

  “You never can be too careful,” he’d say and then peer under or around what-

  ever happened to be in their path.

  After a while, Penelope decided you could be too careful and never make

  it where you were going. “I think I’ll go on ahead a bit,” she said, pointing to

  the trees in the distance. “I’ll wait for you there.”

  Dill stared ahead, his lips pursed. “Well . . .”

  “I’ll keep an eye out for wild boar, I promise.”

  “Oh, all right,” he agreed.

  Penelope ran down the path, relieved to finally be making some progress.

  She thought about the Shadow moving across the Realm and the Clockworkers

  swarming underneath it. Dill said they should head for the Range of Possibilities

  to escape them. But then what? Would that bring them any closer to finding the

  Great Moodler?

  Penelope had hoped she could count on Dill to help her in the search, but

  now she wasn’t so sure. He talked to flowers and thought wild boar were

  lurking in the bushes. Maybe he hadn’t just lost his way — maybe he’d lost

  his mind as well!

  She stopped running. It’s up to me, Penelope realized. She wasn’t used to

  things being up to her. Her mother usually made the plans and her father

  rubber-stamped them. That never left Penelope much to do. Until now. She

  suddenly had the urge to worry again. She couldn’t help herself.

  How will I ever find the Great Moodler . . .

  All on my own . . .

  With no help?

  Penelope could feel her face growing warmer and warmer, but instead of

  the pop-pop-pop of worry warts, she heard a rustling noise.

  Rustle. Rustle.

  It was coming from the clump of bushes to her right.

  It’s probably just a squirrel, she told herself.

  Rustle. Rustle.

  Snap!

  Penelope froze, her eyes fixed on the spot where the sound had come

  from. Something was breaking branches. Something large. Penelope was about

  to run when she heard a series of muffled curses. Just then a man burst out,

  picking bits of twigs and leaves off his coat sleeves and grumbling loudly.

  “Stupid, stupid leaves! What are they doing sticking to me? Don’t they

  know who I am?”

  Penelope let out a sigh of relief. The man didn’t seem very friendly, but at

  least he wasn’t a giant wild pig! He wore gray slacks, a gray shirt, and a gray tie.

  His skin had a soft gray pallor and his eyes were gray to match. Thin gray hair

  hung loosely around an angular face, marked by a pinched, unhappy mouth.

  When he caught sight of Penelope, however, a look of delight crossed his face

  and then immediately disappeared, as if he were expecting someone else.

  “Hello,” said Penelope hesitantly.

  “Yes, yes, hello, it is.” He continued brushing off his jacket, and then asked

  sharply, “Where are you going all alone, child?”

  Penelope objected to being called a child, but was too polite to say so.

  “Oh, I’m not alone. I . . .”

  The man stopped brushing. His eyes locked on Penelope. “Not alone?

  That’s excellent!”

  “Well, my friend and I . . .”

  “Oh, yes, yes, ‘your friend,’ and who might that be?” He took an eager

  step forward.

  “Dill and . . .”

  “DILL!” shouted the man and rushed past Penelope, almost running over

  her in an attempt to get by.

  Penelope looked back up the trail, and sure enough there was Dill on his

  hands and knees, looking under some bushes. In a flash the man was upon him.

  He grabbed Dill’s arm and yanked him up. “So pleased to see you, Dill, really,

  really, it’s wonderful. I can’t wait to tell you what I’ve been up to.”

  “Uh . . . ur,” stammered Dill. But it was too late. The man had already

  launched into his speech.

  Penelope walked slowly up to the two men. The stranger was talking

  on and on, while Dill just stood there listening. “I had the most dreadful pain

  in my tooth,” said the stranger. “My tooth hurt so much I woke up at 2:17

  this morning. Or was it 2:18? No, it must have been 2:17, because I was in the

  kitchen for a glass of water by 2:18. Then I put some ice on my tooth, which

  didn’t make a bit of difference. Not a bit, I can tell you.”

  And he did tell him. The man told Dill in the minutest detail everything

  about his toothache, rarely pausing for breath. Penelope thought that once he

  came to the end, he might stop. But he didn’t. He just brought up another

  topic. And another. All the ailments he had ever suffered. All the trips to the

  post office he had ever taken. All the people who had ever irritated him.

  Dill’s eyes had a glazed and faraway look, while the strange man positively

  beamed. Penelope sighed loudly, hoping the man would take the hint. He

  ignored her. Penelope was used to being ignored, so she did what she always did

  in this situation. She made herself comfortable and waited. She sat on the

  ground, crossed her legs, and began to play her waiting games. First she played

  a game of throwing small rocks at an imaginary target. Then she leaned her

  head back and watched the clouds
for interesting shapes. Next she looked

  for ants.

  All the while, the man kept talking. His brilliant childhood, a book he was

  writing, tips on what to wear for every occasion. On and on and on. Penelope

  rested her head in her hands and closed her eyes. The man’s voice became a

  drone in the background. She was just drifting off to sleep when — plop!

  plop! — something warm and wet hit the back of her neck.

  Penelope jerked her head up. Dill was crying. Not really crying like he

  had hurt himself — crying like someone had turned on a faucet. His mouth and

  eyes were frozen in place while huge tears streamed down his cheeks.

  Penelope jumped to her feet and gave Dill’s arm a shake. It was stiff as a

  board. “Dill!” she shouted. “What’s wrong?” No response. He’d lost the ability

  to speak, much less move.

  The strange man didn’t seem to notice. He was talking faster than ever,

  his mouth moving at an amazing speed. Everything about the man seemed more

  intense than before. Was his hair black now? And how about his clothes? They

  seemed more blue than gray.

  “Excuse me.” Penelope tried to interrupt. The man ignored her. He

  gripped Dill by the collar, pulled him in close, and began talking about his

  shopping habits.

  “The proper way to shop is to start with the produce section. First you

  must check the tomatoes. I squeeze each one as hard as I can. I only eat firm

  tomatoes. Then you check the lettuce for bugs . . .”

  Dill’s tears dried up. The color drained from his face and was now leaving

  his neck. His bright red hair had faded to light pink. His eyes were like

  marbles, his body a statue.

  Penelope grabbed the man’s arm and shook it. “Will you please be quiet?

  Something is terribly wrong with my friend!”

  “Hush!” snapped the man. “Don’t bore me with your chatter.”

  “I’m not boring anyone. You are!” Before the words were out of her mouth,

  Penelope knew what was wrong. Dill had tried to warn her, but she hadn’t

  understood. This man was a Wild Bore!