The Boy from Earth

by Richard Scrimger

  – Ahh. That feels so-o-o-o Sid. I'm still tired from last night.

  I kneel on the branch, lean over, and dip my whole head in the river. Oh, does it feel wonderful! I drink and drink, and come up splashing.

  –Careful, Dingwall!

  We sit there on the branch, resting, restoring. Norbert stands up and puts his hands behind his head. I ask him about the planet's history. “Was there ever a time before the Black Dey?”

  He ponders. –Gee, Dingwall, I really don't know. It's hard for me to imagine him not being here. We don't think about the past much, on Jupiter. So many things are always the same. There's always a Queen Betunka in Betunkaville. And there's always a King Sheldon in Sheldonburg. The moons ride across the sky, and the beaches are warm, and the children learn their times tables. Cocoa is sweet, and cowboys are true, and love is forever. What else do you need? We don't learn history in school because the past is always with us. It's part of our present.

  “And the Black Dey is always there, strong and evil, waiting to carry you away?”

  –Uh-huh.

  “And you like that?”

  –Well, you get used to it.

  The river hurries past us, telling itself the stories it has always told. I suppose it's been here since this part of the country was formed, and it's still here. The water's different every second, but the river's the same. Is this what Norbert's getting at?

  “So what about me?” I ask him. “Why bring me here to get rid of the Dey if you're used to him? I'm an alien. I'm different. Why go all the way to Earth to find a champion?”

  He stares at me. –The prophecy has always been here too, and you're part of that. We've always tried to fulfill the prophecy.

  “But I haven't always been here.”

  –Longer than you think.

  “What do you mean? I've been here less than a day!” I can't make him admit he's wrong, so I splash him.

  –Cut that out, Dingwall!

  “That'll teach you to call me a wide load,” I say. I bend down to splash him again. The branch gives a loud crack, and I pitch headfirst into the river.

  No worries about drowning; I'm a good swimmer. Under my heavy bathrobe, the space suit is buoyant. I drift with the current. Feetfirst, for safety. The water is flowing faster now.

  Norbert flies overhead. I'm on my back, looking up; he's in the air, looking down. A concerned expression on his face.

  – Are you all right, Dingwall? Do you want help getting out?

  “No, thanks,” I say. “This is refreshing. Say, am I going in the right direction?”

  –You have no idea how wrong the direction is.

  “What do you mean?”

  I lift my head, but I can't see the river. This puzzles me for a second, and then I understand. There's no more river to see. We've come to a cliff, and the water is falling in a cascade towards a lake below. This is a surprise, all right! I float over the edge of the waterfall, and, for the second time in less than a day, find myself plummeting towards my doom.

  Falling water all around me. I'm tumbling like a spare sock in the washing machine. This is no good. I spread my arms to straighten myself out, and wiggle my toes. That's better. Now I'm in the air, with the wall of water behind me.

  I try to clench my toes, but I can't get a grip in the wet slippers. I don't stop.

  It reminds me of trying to brake in wet weather. Riding my bike last summer, I sailed right through a busy intersection on the red light because my brake pads refused to grip. I've never had so many fingers raised at me.

  I look down. The ground is coming up fast. It's a beautiful scene. The falling water is so white, and the pool below so blue. There's a beach of golden sand around the pool. As the river continues down the valley, the sand gives way to bright green grass and ferns that overhang the water.

  Clench, Dingwall! Clench those delicate pink tootsies! But I can't. They keep slipping. I've got to think of something. Got to … wait a minute. I can't clench my toes, but I can wiggle them. Which means I can steer, even if I can't stop.

  That's the answer. Got to hurry, though, because I've fallen a long long way and the beautiful blue pool of water is hurtling towards me. Actually, I'm hurtling towards it. I wiggle my toes and point my slippers to the side and slightly up, and just before I hit, I think: I'm too late. And I am. I smash into the pool and get the wind knocked out of me. I start to sink. What a disappointment! I'm dying on a strange planet with my quest unfulfilled. The hidden castle is still hidden. The villain is flourishing. I've let down my friend and myself. Some champion I am. The water closes over my head.

  The End.

  I really thought I was dying. I'm surprised to wake up on the sandy beach with Norbert panting beside me.

  The sun peeps over the rim of the cliff. The waterfall looks like a cascade of diamonds. I can hear country music playing in the background. Something about living each day like you were dying. Appropriate, or what? I'm light-headed.

  “Is this heaven?” I ask weakly.

  Norbert turns towards me, water glistening on his smooth white head. His eyes are crinkled. He's smiling.

  –There's optimism, for you! Heaven? What would you be doing in heaven? If there was any justice, Dingwall, I'd be poking you with a pitchfork. Do you know how heavy you are?

  I prop myself up on my elbows. Everything hurts. My stomach muscles hurt. My side hurts. My hair hurts. Actually, my hair hurts a lot. My feet hurt. I feel wonderful.

  “You keep telling me that. So I guess you pulled me out of the water?”

  –Uh-huh.

  “Dived in after me and grabbed me before I sank? Pulled me up the beach by my collar?”

  – Actually, by your hair.

  No wonder it hurts. I sit up straight. “Well, thanks, Norbert. Thanks a lot.” He looks away. “I mean it,” I say.

  –Uh-huh.

  The country singer is going skydiving and rocky mountain climbing. I look around for the radio, and notice a colorful shell. I reach for it.

  “Hey! Put that back!”

  The voice sounds sort of familiar, dry and grumpy. I turn. A crab stands stiffly, claws poised over his head, eyes out on the end of their stalks. They glare at me.

  “Drop the shell!” he says.

  “It's pretty,” I say.

  “Drop it! Drop it at once!”

  I turn to Norbert. “He reminds me of the guy in charge of the storeroom in Betunkaville,” I say.

  –I know The Jim has a brother somewhere, says Norbert.

  “The Jim?” The little crab waves his claws menacingly over his head. “Who speaks of The Jim? The Jim went away! He didn't think the dale was big enough! Now I am The Dale! The only Dale. Drop the shell, I say! No touching! This dale is mine.”

  I put down the shell. It is a pretty one: whorls and whirls in a rainbow of color.

  “You're looking at the shell!” He scuttles over to it and buries it under the sand. “No looking!”

  A different song begins to play. “Free-Falling.” I know this one. I start to hum along. The Dale rolls his eyes to the top of their stalks, and scuttles under a little beach umbrella nearby. Blue and white stripes, about the size of a handkerchief. The song stops. I guess he turned off his radio.

  “No listening,” he calls, from under the umbrella.

  I have to fight back a smile. “But now you can't hear the song, either.”

  “I'll hear it as soon as you leave!”

  He's tiny – smaller than my hand – but completely fearless. He walks right up to me. “Go away!” he says, waving his pincers. “Leave the dale. Leave like The Jim, and never come back!”

  A stray thought enters my brain by a side door. “Which dale is this?” I ask.

  He hesitates. He doesn't want to give anything away, not even information.

  “If you tell us where we are,” I say, “we'll go. And you can play with your shell, and listen to your radio in peace.”

  He hesitates. Then, “The Amyg Dale,” he sa
ys, in a low voice.

  Thought so. “Hey, Norbert, isn't the Amyg Dale where we're supposed to turn away from the river?”

  “Now, go!” cries the crabby crab.

  And we do. I have to wring out my bathrobe and empty the water out of my slippers, but I'm ready to go a lot sooner than you'd think. My hair hurts when I push it out of my eyes. My toes hurt when I wiggle them. But I can fly My quest is still alive. We fly back up the cliff together, Norbert and I, and head away from the Amyg Dale. Next stop, the Sudden Mountains.

  The wind is blowing right in my face. My robe and slippers are dry. Actually, I'm fairly dry myself. I wouldn't mind a drink, and maybe something to eat. It's been a while since the cake. A band of cloud cuts across the horizon up ahead. It's moving towards us, pushed by the wind. Lightning plays off to the right. Norbert is just behind me and we're flying fairly low to the ground.

  “Do you know where the Sudden Mountains are?” I call to him.

  He shakes his head. –We're a couple hours from, the Amyg Dale, so the mountains should be nearby. But I don't know exactly where.

  “Should we ask for directions?”

  –Dingwall, these are the Random Lands. Sudden forests, sudden deserts, sudden mountains. Look down right now. Go on, look as hard as you like. What do you see? Rocks. Want to ask a handful of pebbles for directions? “I see a road,” I say.

  –Where?

  I point to a ribbon of gray cutting through the stones. It leads over behind a hill on our left. “Come on,” I say. “The road will lead us to civilization – a place where we can ask directions and find some breakfast.”

  –Wait, Dingwall! he cries.

  But I'm thinking about breakfast. I follow the gray ribbon around the hill with Norbert on my tail, calling me names, telling me to slow down, that he doesn't trust the weather or the road, that there might be minions around.

  What a worrier!

  By the time we get to the other side of the hill, I realize that the bank of cloud is closer than I thought. In fact, it's right here, a rounded billow of white reaching from the sky to the ground. The road disappears into it, like a snake going under a lady's long skirt. I point it out to Norbert.

  “We could head down,” I say. “Maybe there's a restaurant.”

  Norbert snorts. –A restaurant? Why stop there? Maybe there's a movie theater. Maybe there's a hotel, with a hot tub in every room. Or a candy mine, with bucketfuls of raw jujubes.

  “Don't be silly. There's no such thing as a candy mine. Not even on Jupiter. Is there?” I say. Mind you, come to think of it, Jupiter is exactly the sort of place where there might be a candy mine. Hmmm. I wonder what raw jujubes would taste like. “What's your favorite color of jujube?” I ask. “Mine's black.”

  –Dingwall, there's no mine down there. There's nothing. The road doesn't go anywhere.

  “Then why build it?” I ask.

  –Why, indeed?

  And the mist covers us. The air is suddenly cooler. I pull my bathrobe tight around me, and keep flying until I feel a gentle bump against my chest and hear a faint beautiful wheet wheet sound. I've flown into a bird.

  I exclaim, and stop.

  –What now? asks Norbert.

  “Sorry,” says the bird, in a musical flutey voice. It seems to be stuck in my robe. I pull it free. A small brown bird with smooth wings and bright red eyes.

  “Sorry,” it says again. “You must hate me for running into you.”

  “Not at all,” I say. “I ran you down.”

  “No, it's my fault! I feel horrible. My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my senses. As if of hemlock I had drunk, or drained some dull opiate to the drains.”

  “That bad, eh?” I say. “You should eat something.”

  The bird introduces herself as Jenny. She's not shy. “As a matter of fact, I was on my way to the mill for breakfast, when I got lost in the fog,” she says.

  “There's a mill near here? With a restaurant?”

  “Sure. A good restaurant. Five stars. I go there all the time. It's easy to find. Just follow the road. Want to come with me?”

  I sure do! “Sounds good, hey, Norbert?”

  –Hmph.

  “I told you that road went somewhere.”

  –How come you got lost if the mill's so easy to find? he asks her. He sounds suspicious.

  “I told you, it was the fog.”

  Just then a gust of wind blows the fog clear for a moment, and I catch sight of rising rocky ground, with a ribbon of road snaking ahead.

  “There's the road!” I cry out. “We'll go with you, Jenny. Then you won't be blown off course again.” She perches on my finger, and sings her thanks. What a nice bird. “You're some kind of sparrow, I guess,” I say.

  “Sparrow?” For a second, I hear iron in her voice. Then she softens it again. “I'm a light-wingèd Dryad of the trees.” She sings a few liquid warbling phrases. “That selfsame song was heard by Ruth when, sick for home, she stood alone amidst the alien corn,” she says.

  “Oh,” I say.

  The cloud bank covers us again, thicker than before. It's like flying through mushroom soup. I can't see ahead. Not a block, not a stone's throw, not a car length. I hold out my own hand. It disappears into a thick wall of white mist.

  –Slow down! cries Norbert, grabbing my arm.

  I stop moving my toes. We're barely moving. That's when I hear a strange sound dead ahead. Creak … creak creak. What is it?

  A gust of wind hits from my left side. I heel like a sailing ship in a storm, barely able to keep my balance. Then, without warning, the wind veers and attacks from behind.

  –I don't like this, says Norbert.

  No use in staring ahead. I can't see past my nose. I fly slowly, and listen hard.

  There it is again.

  Creak … creak creak … creak creak. It's regular, and mechanical. The cloud bank swirls away for a second and shows a triangular sail, which disappears into the mist, and then reappears in the same place. Then it disappears and reappears again. And I realize it's not the same sail. Four sails going round and round.

  Jenny gives a charming throaty laugh. “That's the mill, silly,” she says.

  “What's it doing in midair?” I ask.

  We fly closer. Of course, the windmill is not in midair, but on a little outcrop of bare rock. The ground drops steeply away from the mill, and rises steeply beside it.

  “It's a mountain!” I say. “See that? The rock goes straight up. Where'd that mountain come from? Wow! It popped right out of the cloud like a jack-in-the-box!”

  –That's why they call these the Sudden Mountains, says Norbert.

  “Good thing we were going slowly. If we'd been flying at a normal speed, we'd have crashed into them.”

  The mountainside is sheer and jagged, like a giant steak knife pointing at the sky. The mill perches precariously.

  “Let's go inside,” says Jenny. “I wonder what they've got on the menu today. I'm kind of thirsty, aren't you? I could really go for a draught of vintage that hath been cool'd a long age in the deep-delvèd earth, Tasting of Flora and the country-green, dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!”

  “Sure,” I say, “that sounds pretty good.”

  Creak. Creak creak. The windmill has blue sides, a white top, and red sails. It looks very familiar. I fly closer, and find out why. My dad and I put together one just like it. This was before the divorce, when I was small. I couldn't help much. Dad got down on his hands and knees on the living room floor, hunting for different-sized plastic pieces, and cursing the manufacturer.

  “Hey, Norbert!” I call. He's behind me. “The mill looks like it's made out of those snap-together bricks.”

  –What? Get back, Dingwall! Get back at once! That's a proteor.

  “A what?”

  –It's another of the Black Dey's minions! It can make itself look like anything. Where's that blasted bird?

  I feel Jenny crawling up my bathrobe. “Ah, youth,” she mutter
s to me, “that grows pale, and spectre thin, and dies!” She breaks out in a strange thin nasty laugh. Quite unlike her. I look down and –

  “Ugh!”

  I freeze, clenching my toes in instinctive horror. A large brown spider with Jenny's bright red eyes is crawling across my bathrobe, cackling to herself. Like the windmill, she's made of plastic bricks. I can see where they snap together to make her long jointed legs. I guess she was made of plastic bricks when she was a bird too. That's the great thing about those bricks: you can turn them into whatever you like.

  The windmill, for instance, has turned into a circular saw, complete with a rotating sharp blade.

  Jenny, thrown from me when I stop dead, ends up underneath the saw blades.

  Norbert grabs my arm and pulls me away. A soft, kindly blanket of cloud wraps itself around us. I don't know if the saw can see us, but I can't see it.

  –Come on, Dingwall, says Norbert. “Which way?”

  –We've got to get over the mountains, right? So I'd suggest up. I try to smile, but I'm still shaken. “Jenny was a spider,” I say, in a small voice.

  –No, she wasn't. Norbert is firm. She was a bunch of little plastic blocks. By now, she's something else. Think of her as a car, or a chair. Or a window frame. Hard to be scared of a window frame, isn't it?

  I almost smile. “You never liked her, did you? How come?”

  –Maybe I'm scared of little plastic blocks.

  We angle our slippers upward and begin to climb. My calf muscles remind me that I had to stretch them like this yesterday afternoon, climbing out of the Chasm near Betunkaville. We keep climbing. We take a zigzag route across the face of the mountain, counting to a hundred and then angling back the way we came. My world is narrow: the dwarfish clingy mosses and steeply angled sweating rocks in front of me, and Norbert's slippers above. When we take a moment to catch our breath, I look around. Thick curls of mist obscure where we've been, and where we still have to go.

  We keep climbing.

  And climbing.

  And that's it for a while. We climb, and get blown backward and forward by gusts of wind, and climb some more, and try to keep a sharp lookout for snap-together enemies. As we climb higher, I find that my body gets more tired but my mind becomes more active.