by Dean Koontz
So did Patch. So did Burl. So did Skippy and Gibbons.
The workroom was as still as a churchful of people engaged in silent prayer.
Amos blinked. He yawned. He lifted his head and looked around the workshop. He said, “Was I hibernating?”
Full of joy and relief, everyone laughed. Colleen Shannon was both laughing and crying, and Victor said, “What a wonderful night!”
5.
MRS. SHANNON HAD STITCHED up the cuts that had been made in all the Oddkins to make possible their transfusion of stuffing and love. Now Amos stood on the workbench with his companions. After hugging each of his friends several times, he said, “This moment reminds me of a poem by Rupert Toon.”
“Let’s hear it!” Skippy said.
“By all means!” Burl said.
“Rupert Toon is our favorite poet,” Gibbons said.
Butterscotch and Patch agreed.
Startled, Amos said, “He is?”
“Absolutely,” Patch said. “Our very favorite poet. There is none other like him.”
“That’s for sure,” said Skippy.
Amos grinned and said, “Then you’re going to love this poem. I think it’s one of Toon’s best.”
Moving to the center of the long workbench, he threw back his shoulders, pushed out his chest, held his head high, and recited the lines:
Good food is nice, so people say,
and cows are very fond of hay.
Pretty clothes make you feel good,
and termites have fun with wood.
Money is a pleasure, I suppose,
and a gardener may love a rose.
But real happiness in life depends
on having true and faithful friends.
Riches, fame, interesting studies
—none are half as good as buddies.
“ ‘Interesting studies’?” Skippy said.
Burl thumped the rabbit on the head.
“Oh, uh, wonderful!” Skippy said. “Brilliant!”
“Bravo!” Burl said.
All the Oddkins applauded, as did Victor Bodkins and Mrs. Shannon.
“Gee,” Amos said, “if you really liked it, I’ve got another good one—”
“Oh, not two at once!” cried Patch. “No, no, that would not give us time to savor and enjoy the first one.”
“That’s right,” Gibbons said quickly. “Give us a day or two to think about the first poem, Amos. We need time to savor it, to let it sink in, to enjoy it to its fullest.”
“Yes, a day or two,” Burl said. “Maybe even three or four days.”
“Maybe a month,” Skippy said. “It might take us a whole month to fully absorb and appreciate the first poem.”
“It was that good?” Amos asked.
“It was the most amazing thing,” Skippy said.
“It was … like nothing else,” said Butterscotch.
“It was very much what it was,” said Burl.
“Please,” Patch said. “Give us time to think about it and enjoy it, Amos.”
Amos grinned and nodded. “Okeydoke.”
6.
COLLEEN SHANNON SAID, “BY the courage and determination that all of you exhibited in making the long journey from the toy factory to my shop, you have earned a special reward.”
“Reward? My own TV show?” Skippy wondered.
“Our own library cards?” Amos suggested.
“A thorough dry cleaning?” Patch asked.
“Oh, it’s a much better reward than any of those things,” Colleen Shannon said.
She drew two stools up to the workbench and indicated that Victor Bodkins should sit on one of them. She removed her green shop apron, hung it on a wall peg, and took the other stool. When she asked the Oddkins to gather around, the six toys sat in a semicircle on the workbench in front of her.
“The moment that I agreed to become the new toymaker, I felt a wonderful, warm power enter me.”
“Your magic gift,” Gibbons said.
“Yes,” she said. “I felt myself filled with magic power. But understanding and knowledge came to me as well. I suddenly knew everything there was to know about the history and the destiny of the Oddkins. Among other things, I know what happens to an Oddkin when the life goes out of its toy body, after it’s finished serving the special child that it was made to serve. And if you want to know, I will tell you what will happen when you die. That will be your reward—the comfort of knowing what is to become of you.”
The six Oddkins stared at her in amazement, and suddenly all of them spoke at once: Yes, oh, yes, they wanted to know whether they would get to serve their special children, whether they would go to Heaven like people or to some other place for toys with souls, yes, they just had to know, they were just bursting to know.
“I want to know, too,” said Victor. “What happens to them? It better be something good. They deserve something good.”
Looking slowly from one of their small, sweet faces to the next, Mrs. Shannon said, “Each of you, even Gibbons, will be sold and given to a special child who will desperately need a secret friend. And each of you will succeed in helping your child. Then … when your child no longer needs your friendship and advice, your soul will depart your toy body … and you will be reborn as a real animal so you can experience the joy of being fully alive.”
“Real animals!” Burl whispered in surprised delight. “You mean I will be reborn as a real elephant?”
“Yes. You’ll walk the veldt. You’ll lead a herd. You’ll know what it’s like to taste cool water and fine, rich grass. You’ll get to sire baby elephants and see thousands of beautiful African dawns.”
“And I will be a real bear?” Amos asked.
Colleen Shannon nodded. “You’ll have a chance to know the great pleasure of roaming vast green forests and eating berries from the bushes. You’ll experience the deep, deep rest of winter hibernation and the lovely, lazy awakening in the spring.”
“Oh, the poetry of it!” Amos said.
“You’ll be a fine bear,” Victor Bodkins said, wiping at the moist corners of his eyes.
“And I get to be a real rabbit?” Skippy asked.
“Yes. You’ll know the joy of great speed, for you will run far faster than you can run now. You’ll feel the wind in your fur and the soft earth of the fields beneath your feet. You’ll experience the tremendous comfort and coziness of the burrow and will have time to savor the intense flavors of the wild grass, weeds, and vegetables that you will find everywhere in plenitude.”
“You make it sound better than performing in Las Vegas,” Skippy said.
“It’s much better,” Mrs. Shannon assured him.
“And I … will become a real cat?” said Patch.
“Yes. All sleek muscles and shiny fur. You’ll climb and explore to your heart’s content. The night will belong to you because you will have the eyes of a cat and will see through any shadow.”
“And me?” Butterscotch asked shyly.
“Oh, dear one,” said Colleen, “you will be the beloved dog of a wonderful family, and you’ll receive their affection all the days of your life. You will know the pleasure of sitting at your master’s feet with the knowledge that he treasures you. You will have your litter of puppies, too, and a chance to use your special talent for mothering.”
If Butterscotch’s large, painted-glass eyes could have produced tears, they would have let out a flood now.
“And me?” Gibbons asked. “What animal will I be? I was told that I had been patterned after an animal that existed in a very distant age but died out many thousands of years ago. How can I be reborn?”
Colleen smiled and ruffled the old scholar’s mane of new fuzzy red hair. “You get to be whatever animal you choose. Lion, panther, bird, whale, anything you wish.”
“Of course,” Burl said, “you’ll choose to be an elephant.”
Gibbons rubbed one finger along the side of his snout. “This will take a lot of careful thinking. So many possibilities …”
; “Think on it all you want,” Burl said, “but you’ll end up choosing to be an elephant. I’ll probably see you on the veldt.”
Amos leaned forward and blinked at Mrs. Shannon. “Ummm, gee, I don’t like to seem ungrateful. I’m happy to know we’re going to get a chance to be really, fully alive. But now I’m wondering … what happens when we die again?”
“When your lives as real animals are finished, you will awake in your toy bodies once more—but not on earth. In a higher place.”
They all looked wonderingly toward the ceiling and toward the sky that was out of sight beyond the roof.
“Up there,” she said, “you’ll stay forever at His side because, of course, He loves toys.”
“I knew it!” Skippy said. “I just knew it!”
Later, shortly before dawn, the sleet turned to snow. Colleen Shannon, Victor Bodkins, Amos, Burl, Patch, old Gibbons, Skippy, and Butterscotch stood at the front window of Wondersmith, watching as the falling snow transformed the grimy city into a clean, white fantasy land. Though they were at the end of the night, everything was suddenly fresh and new.
“No one ever has to be afraid of ending,” Amos said, “because there aren’t any. No endings … just new beginnings. Isn’t it a wonderful world? Isn’t it a wonderful life?”
A Biography of Dean Koontz
Dean Koontz (b. 1945) is the international bestselling author of more than one hundred works of fiction across multiple genres such as suspense, mystery, thriller, humorous novels, and children’s literature. His books have reached #1 on the New York Times bestseller list more than two dozen times, making him one of the most successful modern American authors.
Koontz was born in Everett, Pennsylvania, a small town in the Allegheny Mountains, and raised in nearby Bedford. His family was poor and his father was an abusive alcoholic, circumstances that gave Koontz an appreciation for the simple beauty of day-to-day life. His hopeful attitude would later carry over into his writing, in which friendships and love stories are among his most prominent themes.
Koontz’s first writing success came during his senior year at Shippensburg State College, when he won a fiction-writing competition sponsored by the Atlantic Monthly. He continued to write and, after college, worked as an English teacher in Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania, while writing part time. His first novel, a science fiction book titled Star Quest, was published in 1968. In the 1970s, Koontz began to turn his attention to suspense novels, scoring his first New York Times bestseller in 1981 with the novel Whispers.
In addition to his suspense thrillers, Koontz has written illustrated books such as Oddkins: A Fable for All Ages (1988), and six books starring his beloved golden retriever, Trixie. He has also seen eight of his novels turned into feature films. Koontz continues to write prolifically from his home in Southern California, where he lives with his wife, Gerda.
Koontz at age three, already so busy that he needed a wristwatch.
Koontz as a mascot for the Bedford Blue Devils football team at age three. He describes this as the beginning and end of his glorious career in athletics.
Koontz thought he first met his wife, Gerda, when he was seventeen and she was sixteen, but his mother had this photograph of the future couple at a birthday party they both attended more than thirteen years earlier.
A front view of the house in which Koontz was raised (from 1950 until 1963). His family did not have indoor plumbing until he was eleven years old.
A back view of the house in which Koontz was raised. He says: “Humble as it was, we nevertheless could not be sure that we could continue to afford to live there.”
Koontz’s mother, Florence, whom everyone called Molly. Koontz describes her as a good soul, and an intelligent and kind woman who married badly and suffered much.
Koontz and his mother in 1952, in front of the closest thing to a new car they ever owned. A few months later, while drunk and speeding, his father would total the car and nearly die.
Koontz remembers the brush-cut but not the quiff from his high-school graduation portrait, in which he thinks he looks a little like Tintin.
Koontz thinks he looks proud and Gerda looks wary—and pretty—on their wedding day, October 15, 1966.
Koontz and Gerda in autumn 1968. Koontz was an English teacher in Mechanicsburg, and his wife worked at a credit bureau. Weeks after this photo was taken, Gerda would offer to support Koontz for five years while he tried to write and sell novels. By 1973, she was able to quit her job and do research work for him.
Gerda with Koontz’s college roommate, Harry Recard, and Recard’s wife, Diane, in 1980. Recard taught Koontz how to play pinochle, and the two engaged in marathon tournaments. Koontz cut half of his classes as a result and says if he had failed out of college, he would have blamed Recard.
Koontz and Gerda at the Hilton Hotel in Las Vegas, 1980, at the end of a two-week tour of California, which was a gift to Gerda’s father and stepmother.
Gerda with her father, Ross Cerra, in 1980, before they “dressed so fancy” for Las Vegas.
Koontz thinks Gerda “looks so cute” in this photo from 1982.
Koontz and Gerda celebrating their twentieth anniversary in autumn 1986. Although they don’t have a photo together, Koontz says they “actually were on the same ship.”
Koontz and Gerda with their beloved golden retriever Trixie in September 1998, the day Trixie came into their lives. She was three years old and a release dog from Canine Companions for Independence (CCI), which provides assistance dogs for people with disabilities. Koontz and Gerda have long been supporters of CCI. Koontz says, “You will notice the sudden appearance of hair on my head—the result of eighteen months of painful surgeries. Gerda and Trixie are both far, far prettier than me, but I am more vain!”
The day Trixie came into their lives, Gerda’s brother, Vito, and his wife, Lynn, were spending the week.
Gerda with a CCI puppy, a butterball golden, in 2000. The retriever was eventually trained as an assistance dog.
Koontz and Gerda with some of the trainers and other folks at the Southwest Region facility of CCI in 2000. Gerda is on the extreme left, with Trixie in front of her. She and Koontz are flanking Judi Pierson, who was director of the Southwest Region at the time.
Koontz and Gerda with Zov Karamardian in 2000. Karamardian is a dear friend in whose restaurant they have, over the years, eaten more than four thousand meals!
Koontz and Trixie in 2001. He relied on her to negotiate the terms of some of his more difficult publishing deals.
Gerda and Koontz around the time of their fortieth anniversary.
Another shot of Trixie in 2001, just because.
Anna as a puppy. She came into Koontz and Gerda’s lives at the age of two, ten months after they lost Trixie in 2006.
Gerda, Koontz, and Anna at a recent CCI graduation ceremony. More than playing catch or tug, more than swimming, more than food, Anna loves to be around a lot of people. She expects to be adored—and is.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1988 by Nkui, Inc., Airtight Graphics, and The Land of Enchantment
cover illustration by Phil Parks
cover design by Andrea C. Uva
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