The Lost Track of Time

by Paige Britt

  discovered Anything is possible all those years ago.”

  “Oh, my! I am honored.” This time it was the Great Moodler who bowed.

  Dill’s face grew redder than his hair. “What Penelope means,” he tried to

  explain, “is that I used to be a great explorer. I’ve lost my way and now I can’t

  find anything.”

  At that very moment an idea occurred to Penelope. “You found me,”

  she said.

  Dill threw her a sideways glance. “What?”

  Penelope repeated herself. “You found me.”

  “But I wasn’t looking for you,” insisted Dill. “I was looking for the Great

  Moodler.”

  The Great Moodler took an eager step forward. “But don’t you see?

  Penelope is a great moodler. One of the best. Her moodling defeated Chronos,

  freed you —” She flung her hands up like she was throwing confetti. “Freed the

  entire Realm!”

  Dill’s mouth dropped open.

  A smile crept across the Great Moodler’s face and settled into her eyes.

  She gave Dill a consoling pat. “You know, dear, sometimes you find what you’re

  looking for, but not what you’re expecting.”

  Dill looked at Penelope. “Y-you mean, you’re the great moodler I was look-

  ing for? I found her after all?”

  “I was right under your nose,” said Penelope, laughing.

  He shook his head in amazement. “Incredible. Extraordinary.

  Absolutely . . . Coo-Coo!”

  The Great Moodler looked startled. “Wh-what?”

  “The Coo-Coo bird,” Dill shouted, pointing at the sky.

  Sure enough, there was the Coo-Coo, flying straight toward them. He

  landed in a rush of air, disrupting a host of Fancies and scattering possi-

  bilities everywhere. “You-you . . . did it!” the bird called in delight, hugging

  Dill and then Penelope. “The . . . two-two . . . of you-you . . . pulled off a . . .

  coup-coup!”

  “We had some help,” said Penelope, nodding toward the Great Moodler.

  The Coo-Coo scurried over to meet her. “Coo-Coo . . . at your service,”

  he sang, dipping his head down and nearly knocking her over with his plume.

  “Delighted, I’m sure!” laughed the Great Moodler.

  “The Coo-Coo helped us find you,” explained Penelope. “He lives on the

  Range of Possibilities . . .” Penelope cringed as the memory of Chronos’s bull-

  dozers crossed her mind. “Or at least he used to . . .”

  “Were we in time?” asked Dill. “Is your mountain safe?”

  The bird shook his head. “The Clockworkers . . . blew-blew . . . it up.”

  Dill and Penelope stood by in shocked silence, unsure of what to say. The

  Range of Possibilities was gone, the Coo-Coo’s home destroyed.

  The Great Moodler placed a hand on the bird’s wing and gave it a

  squeeze. “I’m so sorry. We’ll all do what we can to help you. It won’t be easy, but

  with two great moodlers on hand” — she motioned toward Penelope — “it

  shouldn’t be a problem. We’ll moodle up a Least Possibility. And with thousands

  of people here in the City to consider it, we’ll eventually restore the Range.” The

  Great Moodler turned to Penelope. “Are you willing to give it a try?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  The Great Moodler turned to Dill. “And you?”

  Dill stood up tall. “I’ll do what I can even though I don’t have my

  moodle hat.”

  “Coo-coo . . . coo-coo,” sang the bird ever so softly. “Would this help . . .

  you-you?” He slipped his head under his wing and pulled it out again. There,

  between his beak, was a shiny flat object.

  “My moodle hat!” Dill rushed forward and the Coo-Coo dropped it into

  his outstretched hands. “Wherever did you find it?”

  “It caught my eye as I.. . flew-flew . . . over the wasteland. I thought

  someone . . . threw-threw . . . it away.”

  “Someone did,” said Dill. “It was the awful Officer X. I thought I’d never

  see it again.” He clutched the hat to his chest. “Thank you,” he said to the bird,

  his eyes shining.

  Just then, they heard a commotion and a figure emerged from the gates

  of the Timely Manor. His clothes were dusty and torn, and he walked as

  if in a dream, but Penelope recognized him right away. “It’s Chronos,” she said

  in alarm.

  Everyone watched as Chronos caught sight of a Clockworker. He grabbed

  her arm and gesticulated wildly at the tower. The Clockworker didn’t seem the

  least bit interested and instead held out a possibility for him to consider. Chronos

  shoved the possibility aside and ran to the next Clockworker and the next, but

  no one made a move to help. Possibilities drifted all around them. Chronos

  swatted at them like flies.

  “Poor Richard . . .” said the Great Moodler with a shake of her head. “I’m

  afraid he’ll never recover.”

  “That’s Poor Richard?” gasped Penelope.

  “Why, yes. He changed his name to Chronos because he thought it sounded

  more powerful, but Richard is his real name. I just added the ‘poor’ myself. He

  seems so pathetic.”

  Penelope couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Chronos was Poor

  Richard? The Poor Richard from her calendar? “Is Chronos always spouting off

  quotes and sayings?” asked Penelope, just to make sure.

  “Oh, yes!” said the Great Moodler. “Endlessly. They’re plastered all over

  the City. I believe he even wrote them all down in a book. It was some sort of

  almanac or calendar.”

  “That’s the one!” cried Penelope.

  Dill turned to Penelope in surprise. “You’ve heard of it?”

  “I definitely have. My mother used to read from it every day.”

  “Excellent book,” said the Great Moodler.

  “Wha —?” exclaimed Penelope. “It’s not excellent at all! It’s horrible

  and . . . and preachy!”

  “Well, that depends on how you look at it,” said the Great Moodler. “Poor

  Richard had lots of wise things to say, but he was so afraid no one would listen

  to him that he got carried away. Instead of asking people to consider his words,

  he demanded they obey them.”

  Poor Richard, wise? His words, worth considering? The possibility had

  never occurred to Penelope before. But it did now. It popped out of her head, a

  single brilliant, blinding seed. She stared at it, caught in the wonder of the

  words etched in its dazzling brightness. Penelope said them out loud: “You might

  be right.”

  Her voice gave this tiny possibility power. It shot up into the air, higher

  and higher, hovering like a star above the City.

  Penelope looked up and held her breath.

  Dill held his breath.

  The Great Moodler held her breath.

  The bird tried to hold his breath, but it was no use. He kept interrupting

  the silence with soft coo-coos.

  And then the tiny point of light took off like a meteor.

  “That’s a Least Possibility!” shouted the Great Moodler. “After it!”

  “Coo-coo!” The bird squawked, running back and forth in excitement. “I

  can get a . . . new-new . . . home!”

  “Of course you can,” said the Great Moodler. “Once you consider that

  possibility, who knows how big it will grow.” She gave a sharp whis
tle and

  an orange-and-blue-plaid Fancy dropped down from the sky. “Get on,” she

  instructed Dill. “We’ve got to act fast.”

  Dill took a step backward. “I’m not climbing on that thing.” He dodged

  left, then right, trying to get away. The Fancy, who thought it was a grand

  game, skittered after him.

  “Come on,” urged Penelope, jumping aboard her bright blue Fancy. “That

  Least Possibility could spawn a whole new Range. We’ve got to find it! Just

  imagine the easiest, smoothest flight possible, and whatever you do, don’t think

  about falling.”

  The Fancy butted Dill with its head until his legs (and will) gave way.

  Next thing he knew, he was perched on top of the creature.

  The Great Moodler’s whirling spiral Fancy zipped by and she leapt aboard.

  “After that Possibility!” she shouted and they all took off.

  All except Penelope.

  When Dill noticed they were leaving without her, he came to a halt.

  “What’s wrong?” he called down.

  “I don’t know,” she called back. “I can’t make it go.” She imagined rising

  straight up through the maze of skyscrapers and out into the clear blue sky. But

  her Fancy didn’t budge. Penelope’s three friends wheeled around and dropped

  down to where she floated a few feet above the ground.

  “If you can’t make it go,” said the Great Moodler, “it must be something

  beyond your wildest imagination.”

  “What could that be?” asked Dill.

  “I think —” answered Penelope, not believing the words herself, “I think

  I want to go home.”

  “Home!” screeched Dill. “That’s absurd. Ridiculous. Out of the question.

  Your world is full of Clockworkers.”

  “Is that . . . true-true?” sang the bird, his great wings flapping.

  “It is,” said Penelope. “There are Clockworkers everywhere. But that’s

  just it. I’m a great moodler and . . . and they need me.”

  Dill released his grip on his Fancy long enough to embrace her. When he

  leaned back, Penelope could see tears in his eyes to match her own. “I’m sure

  you’re right,” he sniffed. “They must be lost without you.”

  Penelope felt a hand on her arm and turned to look at the Great Moodler.

  “I suppose your time is up, dear,” she said kindly.

  Penelope nodded and the tears ran down her face. “I’ll never forget what

  you did for me. Never!” she cried, as her Fancy began to rise.

  The Great Moodler waved up at her. “I hope we meet again someday!”

  “Thank you! Thank you! Ever more thank you!” Dill shouted.

  “Adieu-dieu . . . adieu-dieu,” called the Coo-Coo between giant sobs.

  Penelope waved and waved until

  her friends turned into tiny dots

  and then disappeared.

  Penelope imagined returning home, and as her thoughts carried her away, the

  Fancy rose higher and higher. Her time was up and she was going to meet it. As

  she moodled, her Fancy gained speed, heading straight for a bank of white

  clouds. It passed through the clouds and popped out the other side, where the

  sun sat waiting. The Fancy flew straight at the ball of blinding light. Penelope

  squeezed her eyes shut as she fought back a surge of fear, but the light was just as

  much inside her head as out. She heard a whooshing sound and felt the Fancy

  blown out from under her. Her eyes snapped open.

  The Fancy was gone.

  The sun was gone.

  The sky was gone.

  Everything was gone.

  Even her fear.

  All that was left was an unending world of white. Penelope stared at

  the white. When she did, the glare began to fade and she saw, wavering in the

  distance, a long, black, horizontal line. As Penelope watched, the line broke

  apart. Now there were two lines — one above and one below. Then those

  lines broke apart and became four. Then eight.

  The lines were stark and black against the white background. They

  stood very still until the one at the top began to move. It wiggled and stretched,

  forming what looked like letters. Penelope stared at the letters until she could

  make out the words:

  One today is worth two tomorrows.

  “Tea?”

  Penelope blinked. Miss Maddie came into sudden focus. She was stand-

  ing in front of Penelope holding a steaming cup. Penelope nodded dumbly.

  Miss Maddie put the cup down on the table. “Careful now, that’s full,”

  she cautioned. “Sugar?”

  chapter twenty-three

  Penelope nodded again and watched as Miss Maddie dropped three

  sugars into the tea. Plop. Plop. Plop. “Hope you like it sweet,” said Miss Maddie

  and winked.

  Penelope looked down at her cup. Sitting next to it on the table was

  a page torn from a calendar — her calendar. On it were the words she’d

  just read. One today is worth two tomorrows. Below the words was a series

  of blank lines.

  Miss Maddie sat down at the table next to Penelope and tapped the

  calendar with her finger. “So then . . . a schedule with a giant hole in it . . .

  The possibilities are endless.”

  Penelope took a sip of tea, letting the warm sweetness bring her back to

  the room. “That’s — that’s what I thought,” she said, “but my mother has other

  ideas.”

  Miss Maddie stared at Penelope from over her teacup. “And what do you

  think about her ideas?”

  Penelope put down her cup. “I think they’re good.”

  Miss Maddie put down her cup, too. “I never thought I’d hear you say that.”

  Penelope shook her head in amazement. “I never did, either. Her ideas

  aren’t the problem. The problem is they’re hers, not mine.”

  Penelope stared down at her tea, trying to make sense of her own words.

  For a brief moment, the image of a tall, skinny man with red hair stuck inside a

  clock flashed before her eyes. Time was weighing on him, so heavy. She knew

  how he felt. She had the feeling her mother did, too.

  Penelope looked up. “I think you’re right about needing space. I’ve been

  so pressed for time, I haven’t been able to think for myself. I thought I could

  prove my writing wasn’t a waste of time, but I guess what I really wanted

  to prove was that I wasn’t a waste of time.”

  “The only story that can prove that is your life.” Miss Maddie said the

  words like they were a spell. They dawned on Penelope and a hope she’d never

  felt before spread its way into her heart. And then she remembered.

  Penelope reached around to her back pocket, breath held tight. Would it

  be there? Was the story real, waiting for her to write?

  Her fingers touched her notebook and she slowly drew it out, placing it

  on the table. She almost didn’t dare look. Almost. With one finger, she flipped

  it open.

  There they were. Her notes. The story of her journey. The places she’d

  seen, the people she’d met, and the things she’d learned. Everything except

  the end.

  Penelope slammed her notebook closed. “I have an idea. An amazing idea.”

  “An idea for a story?”

  “Yes,” said Penelope and gulped down her tea. “A story that might

  just get published. It’s within the R
ealm of Possibility. Totally within

  the Realm!”

  “Oh?” said Miss Maddie. “So you’ve been there?”

  But Penelope wasn’t listening. “I gotta go!” she said, getting up from

  the table. “I’m going to talk to my mom and dad. Maybe they’ll listen and

  maybe they won’t. If that doesn’t work, then I’ll find another way to make it

  happen.”

  Miss Maddie got up and smoothed down her skirt. “Before you go, there’s

  something I want you to do.”

  Penelope stopped halfway out the door.

  Miss Maddie took a pencil out of her pocket and laid it on the table, next

  to the calendar. “I want you to make time for yourself. No one else will.”

  Penelope walked back to the table. She picked up the pencil and looked at

  it for a moment, toying with it in her hands. She was going back home to do the

  impossible. She was going to talk to her parents. Usually, at a time like this, she

  would have been full of doubt. A knot would have formed in her throat and

  she would have wanted to scream. But Penelope didn’t feel like she usually did.

  Not anymore.

  You can do it, said a voice inside her head. You can do it.

  Penelope took a deep breath and pressed the pencil to the paper, moving

  it with sure strokes. This is what she wrote:

  July 3

  One today is worth two tomorrows.

  8:00–9:00 Talk to my parents

  9:00–?? Anything is possible

  To Justin,

  for giving me permission to do

  ab-so-lutely nothing

  —P.B.

  acknowledgments

  All my thanks to the original Great Moodler — Brenda Ueland — who

  gave me “the impulse to write one small story.” I hope you are pleased.

  Profound gratitude to: my editor, Tracy Mack, whose wisdom and kindness

  brought this book into being; my agent, Marietta Zacker, for making my

  anything possible — you’re a wonder; to Emellia Zamani for recognizing