And even if the badge had been visible, Billy didn’t know if he could have spared enough attention to read it. The old man was moving at a surprising pace, pounding along on two feet and two canes as he inspected his domain. The old man constantly called out directions to the cleaning rock Fizzles, sternly reprimanding them for the “untidiness,” “uncleanliness,” and “downright filthosity” of the area. Billy wasn’t even sure that “filthosity” was a word, but he was fairly certain that he had found the person in charge of cleaning, not just the anteroom, but much of Powers Island.
His suspicions were confirmed as he passed a chute, out of which half-eaten hot dogs from Powers Stadium were falling, landing in a bin the size of a garbage truck, all of them screaming piteously about the fact that they would never be eaten.
“Quiet!” roared the old man as he passed them. He handed Billy his canes, which Billy took automatically, then climbed with surprising nimbleness up the side of the container that held the hot dogs. He leaned far over the side, his cloak riding up to reveal the old man’s white legs and long white underwear, his behind stuck high in the air. Billy looked away, embarrassed. He didn’t know if there was some social rule against looking at the legs of hundred-year-old men, or watching their bony behinds stuck up in the air, but if there wasn’t there should have been.
The old man finally hoisted himself back over the side of the bin and clambered down holding a pair of half-eaten hot dogs.
“My prayers have been answered!” shouted one ecstatic frankfurter.
“Praise be to the Powers!” chorused the other.
“Eat me first!” said the first.
“No, eat me first!” countered the second. This spawned a short argument.
“He doesn’t want you first, you indigestible pig’s foot!” screamed one in miniature rage.
“Well, if you think he’d eat a hot dog made of chicken lips like you, you’re sadly mistaken!” yelled the other.
The old man quickly settled the argument, however, by squishing both of the partially eaten hot dogs into his mouth at the same time. His cheeks bulged like a fat squirrel’s, and tears ran down his cheeks, but he managed to chew and swallow the entire mass.
Billy felt slightly ill, both at the fact that the hot dogs were what car commercials tastefully called “pre-owned,” and at the fact that he was pretty sure he could hear moans of satisfaction still coming from the old man’s throat as the hot dogs went down.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” crabbed the old man, grabbing his canes from Billy and resuming his walk.
Billy looked down at Prince, hoping for some clue that would help him to know what he should do next. The lava snake appeared to be asleep, however, leaving Billy alone to hurry after the old man.
“Where are we going?” asked Billy.
“Where do you want to go?” responded the old man.
“Uh, I don’t really know,” Billy finally managed.
“Then it doesn’t really matter, does it?” answered the old man. “And you never answered my question.”
“What question?” answered Billy, thoroughly confused.
“What kind of bleach do you think you’re using?” asked the man, adding greatly to Billy’s confusion before he realized that the old man was talking to one of his Fizzles. The Fizzle spoke in its high-pitched voice, a sound that was almost unintelligible to Billy—though he got an impression that the Kung Fu Cleaner was begging for mercy—but which the old man apparently understood quite well. “Humph,” he said in reply to the Fizzle. “You know what I think about the generic brands. Well, what’s your name?”
Billy stood there for a long moment before he realized that this last sentence had in fact been addressed to him. “Billy,” he managed. “Billy, uh, Jones.”
“Well, Billy Uhjones,” said the old man. “I’m Rumpelstiltskin.” He threw open his robe to show Billy his name tag, and sure enough, it said “Rumpelstiltskin” on it. But to Billy’s surprise, that was all it said. There was no indication of the man’s power, or of whether he was a Darksider or a Dawnwalker. Billy was almost shocked; he had thought he was the only one on Powers Island who was unDetermined.
Maybe we’re not on Powers Island, Billy thought, maybe this is somewhere else.
But as soon as that thought came, he dismissed it. If they weren’t on the island, the old man wouldn’t have had a name tag in the first place, and Billy’s own tag would have disappeared in a puff of smoke and flame, the same as it had done each time he left the island.
“Yup, Rumpelstiltskin’s the name,” continued the doddering old man, “but my friends call me Terry.”
“Okay, Terry, I—” began Billy.
“Who said we were friends?” asked the man. Billy was floored. He couldn’t keep up with this guy’s train of thought. Or was it trains? Certainly the man seemed to be going in all directions at once, and Billy wasn’t quite sure how to follow along. “Now,” continued the old man, “if your name was Billy Jones, for instance, then maybe we’d be friends. But I make it a practice not to consort with Uhjoneses. They tend to be a bit sneaky. Small feet, you know.” Then he cast a long look at Billy. “No offense,” he added. “Your feet look fine.”
“But,” Billy finally managed when Rumpelstiltskin stopped talking long enough to take a breath, “I am Billy Jones.”
“Nonsense,” said Rumpelstiltskin—or Terry, as his friends called him. He whacked a Fizzle who was mopping the floor too slowly. “I’ve met Billy Uhjones, and you look just like him. I met him just recently, in fact, seems like only a few minutes ago.”
“That was me,” said Billy in exasperation.
“See?” crowed Rumpelstiltskin in triumph. “You admit it! You’re Billy Uhjones all right.”
“But I—” started Billy, then sighed and dropped his head in defeat. “Never mind,” he mumbled.
“I never do,” said Rumpelstiltskin. He grabbed a pair of paper towels from a nearby dispenser and started using one of them to clean the other.
Billy stood silently for a moment, then said, “Excuse me.” He didn’t want to stand here waiting for this lunatic to come to his senses. His friends still needed him, and he had no idea if Wolfen or Eva or Cameron would pop in here at any second, looking for blood.
“Why?” asked Rumpelstiltskin, looking up from his cleaning. “What did you do?” When he saw Billy, he said, “Who are you, anyway?”
“I told you,” said Billy, muffling a scream of exasperation that was desperately trying to escape. The only thing that kept him from letting it out was the fact that his mother had always told him to respect his elders, and Billy suspected that this guy was as elder as they came. “I’m Billy Jones,” he finished semi-calmly, though his teeth did grit together when he said it.
“Billy Jones?” asked Rumpelstiltskin in delight. He dropped his two paper towels to the floor, where a Kung Fu Cleaner immediately grabbed them and deposited them in a nearby trash can. “Well, why didn’t you say so?” He hugged the very surprised Billy. “I’m Rumpelstiltskin!”
“Thanks, er, good to meet you, Rumpelstiltskin,” Billy finally managed when the man let go of his embrace long enough for Billy to snatch a quick breath of air.
“Well, she told me you might be coming, and she certainly was right, that’s true,” said Rumpelstiltskin.
“Who told you that? Who’s ‘she’?” asked Billy with a sinking feeling. Rumpelstiltskin seemed harmless enough, but if Eva Black had been the one who warned him that Billy might be coming, Billy knew he could expect no mercy. He shook his wrist, trying to wake Prince up. But the lava snake just batted its ember eyes once, then tightened its curled body a bit and went back to sleep.
Great, thought Billy, I have a snake made of fire who wants to watch out for me, but has to go and hibernate when I need him.
“Who told me what?” asked Rumpelstiltskin, confused.
Billy was tempted to let the matter drop and just run away, but he again had no idea where he would go
. He didn’t even know where he was, not really, so the idea of escaping seemed a bit ludicrous. Besides, he wanted to end this exasperating conversation if possible, and Rumpelstiltskin had seemed almost lucid a moment ago when mentioning that someone had told him of Billy’s coming.
“Who told you I was coming?” asked Billy. Then, to cover all his bases, he added, “My name is Billy Jones, and you said someone said I was coming, and I want to know who.”
“Ah, quite right,” said the man. “Well, the prophecies of the Book of Earth certainly mentioned this as a possibility.” His eyes went to that far-off place he seemed to live in. “That’s probably where she got the idea in the first place.” He frowned. “And here I thought she was so smart. Cheater.”
“Who is a cheater?” Billy demanded, his frustration rising to hitherto unknown heights.
“My wife, of course,” said Rumpelstiltskin.
“Who’s your wife?” asked Billy.
Rumpelstiltskin frowned. “I don’t know,” he said, and for a moment his eyes grew sad. “She was something important, though.” Then he brightened, and snapped his fingers. “I know,” he exclaimed, “she was a Brown Councilor.” Then he frowned once again. “If only I knew what that was.”
Billy almost fell over right there. “Mrs. Russet?” said Billy, stunned. “Mrs. Russet is your wife?”
“Who’s Mrs. Russet?” asked Rumpelstiltskin.
“You said she was your wife,” answered Billy. And he thought, Mrs. Russet is this kook’s wife?
“I’m not a kook,” said Terry indignantly. Billy’s ears reddened as he realized that in his surprise he must have spoken aloud. Then Rumpelstiltskin’s expression changed. “Actually, on second thought, I guess I am a kook. That’s what everyone always calls me, anyway.” He focused back on Billy and applauded. “Well done, my boy! Hit the nail right on the head.” Then he leaned in close to Billy, teetering on the very edge of his balance, his canes at forty five degree angles from the floor. “Did you know you were an Object of Prophecy?” he asked.
“I had heard that,” said Billy, still off-balance by the revelation that Mrs. Russet had a husband, though apparently Rumpelstiltskin himself could not remember her name. Mrs. Russet was a teacher, for crying out loud. He had never imagined her with a husband. Rather, he had always figured that she went to a house that looked like a dungeon and ate students who hadn’t done their homework before curling up for a nice night’s sleep in a coffin or something. And even more unsettling was the fact that Mrs. Russet, the most no-nonsense and probably smartest person he had ever met, was married to a guy who spent time sorting left and right socks and obsessively using paper towels to clean other paper towels.
“Good,” said Rumpelstiltskin Russet, grinning at Billy with a smile full of teeth that badly needed braces. “Have you heard the prophecies?”
“I think I’ve heard some of them,” said Billy, trying to remember some of the things that Mrs. Russet had read out of the Book of the Earth. “Something about the world ending, and a diamond splitting in half.”
“Bah,” said Rumpelstiltskin with a dismissive wave of his cane. “Those are the boring ones. I like the one that goes like this:
“There was once a messenger true
Who both came and went through the blue.
He used a big blade,
And the dead were waylaid,
And he felt like he’d soon have to poo.”
Billy gawked. “That’s from the Book of the Earth?” he finally managed. “A limerick?”
Rumpelstiltskin cackled. “What, you don’t think the Earthessence has a sense of humor? Have you ever seen the Scandinavian coastline? All those fjords? Who thinks of that stuff?” he then asked with another laugh.
“I don’t know,” said Billy absently. Assuming that Rumpelstiltskin was actually quoting a real passage from the Book of the Earth—a huge assumption, considering that this guy was clearly in need of a good psychiatrist and some serious medication—Billy wondered what this new part of the prophecy meant.
“Do you have to go to the bathroom?” asked Rumpelstiltskin suddenly.
Billy was surprised by this sudden turn to the conversation, but before he could say anything, he realized that yes, indeed, he did have to go. “Actually, yes,” he said.
“See?” Rumpelstiltskin cackled in victory. “The prophecies are already coming true! You have to poo!” And then he danced a little jig, kicking up his legs as best he could.
Billy decided that he would ignore Rumpelstiltskin—and the last line of the limerick—for now. But the rest of he poem might help him figure out what to do next. “The dead” could clearly be some kind of reference to the zombie hordes that had taken control of Powers Island, but what did the poem mean when it talked about a blade? A magic sword? An Imbued spear? An enchanted butter knife? And what did it mean that the messenger “came and went through the blue?”
“Do you know what it means?” he finally asked Rumpelstiltskin, almost instantly regretting it.
“I most certainly do! And I can explain everything!” proclaimed the Brown Power. Then he frowned. “You’ll just have to remind me what it is we were talking about first.”
Billy shook his head in defeat. There was no getting anywhere with this man. But that thought led to another.
“How did I get here?” he asked.
“My Fizzles brought you, of course,” said Rumpelstiltskin. “They must have decided you were too big a mess to be handled ‘offsite,’ as it were.” He eyed Billy’s clothing again. “And I must say, they were right.”
“And where are we?” asked Billy, relieved to have finally gotten something resembling a straight answer from the man.
“The Cleaning Room,” answered Rumpelstiltskin, as though the answer needed no further explanation. Billy decided to let that one go as well.
“Does Eva Black know how to get here? Or Wolfen?” he asked.
“That harpy?” said Rumpelstiltskin with a snarl. He shook both his canes this time, clearly upset by the very mention of Mrs. Black’s name. “She doesn’t care about menial things like cleaning. Never mind that without me and my friends, the whole of Powers Island would look like the city dump in Newark, New Jersey. Never mind that without us, we’d be buried in used cocoa mugs and hot dog wrappers up to our—”
“And what about Wolfen?” Billy interrupted, determined to keep this conversation on track.
“Wolfen?” asked the man, looking confused. “Isn’t he dead already?”
“No!” said Billy. “Don’t you know anything about what’s going on on Powers Island? With the Darksiders? With…,” he slowed, then in a softer voice, said, “With your wife?”
Rumpelstiltskin’s countenance changed. The tiny old man seemed to shrink in on himself, like a candle flame about to puff out of existence. “My wife,” he said. Then suddenly, as fast as he had wilted, he seemed somehow stronger and taller. “I know she’s been taken captive. And I know that some very bad things are going to happen to her soon, if they haven’t already.” Then he grinned and returned to his demented self once more.
Billy was aghast. “You mean you know?” he said, totally shocked. “And you’re not doing anything about it?”
Rumpelstiltskin looked at Billy with rheumy eyes that shone with half-hidden tears. “My boy,” he said. “I can’t do much. I’ve done what I could, just waiting for you.”
“Me?” Billy was now even more confused. “Why me?”
“Because,” said Rumpelstiltskin, his eyes now shining with tears of a different kind, tears of hope and longing, “you are the Messenger. You are the one who is of all Powers. If anyone can save us all, you can.”
“Then help me,” pleaded Billy.
Rumpelstiltskin shook his head. “I can’t leave here,” he said.
“Why?” asked Billy.
The tired and scared-looking old man gazed all around. The work of cleaning went on on all sides, continuous and unwavering as the existence of the sun. “I can
’t leave,” he whispered. He looked back at Billy. “Who will watch my babies?” he asked, gesturing at all the Fizzles. Then, in an even more melancholy tone, he said, “Who will do the cleaning?”
Billy wanted to say something else. It was incomprehensible to him that this man was unwilling to leave the Cleaning Room to go after his wife, even if he didn’t remember who she was; to try to save the woman he had married. Billy knew that if his mother was in trouble, his father would move heaven and earth to save her. His father, though often distant, was a peace-loving man, whose job as a paramedic was devoted to saving others. Nonetheless, Billy knew that if his mom was being hurt, those people responsible would have to watch out, because his father would come after them, and would be relentless.
But Billy didn’t say anything else to try and convince Rumpelstiltskin “Terry” Russet to come with him. The man was very sick, it was clear. A sad and broken man who didn’t have the strength to leave his sanctuary. Billy knew he should have felt angry, but all he could muster was pity.
“Is there any way you can help me?” Billy asked. “Anything at all?”
“I don’t know,” said Rumpelstiltskin. “What do you want me to do?”
Billy thought. “I need to get to Dark Island,” he finally said. “That’s where my friends are being held.”
“Well, if that’s the case, I can give you a nice rope to hang yourself with,” said Rumpelstiltskin. “It’d be quicker and less painful than going after the Darksiders in their stronghold.”
“Look,” said Billy, surprised at the strength and determination he heard in his voice. “I’m going to find a way to Dark Isle, with or without your help. So if you’ve got anything to say that might help me, say it now. Because I’m going.”
Billy: Messenger of Powers Page 30