Altitude, I realize, is more than distance from the ground; it's also distance from all things relating to the ground. I feel this within me as I climb higher and higher. I feel my body becoming less and less important to me. My mind ranges wide and high over all that I know, all my experience, analyzing, judging from a great height. I understand and appreciate more than I ever have, and I worry less.
I consider the phenomenon of the mountains suddenly popping out at me from behind the cloud cover. Sudden Mountains, indeed. An excellent name. Very apt.
I consider the phenomenon of the sail on a windmill. It traps the wind going one direction, and utilizes it in another. A matter of forces and vectors. Fascinating.
I consider my loneliness. I'm an only child. I've been lonely most of my life. The reason Norbert and I get along so well is that we're company for each other.
I consider Jenny's trickery, and why it bothers me. It isn't that she was bad. (I've been in the same class as Mary the bully since kindergarten. I've seen girls behave badly.) No, it's the fact that Jenny started out nice and then turned into a nightmare. Treachery. That's the scary thing. Not the spider, but the bird turning into the spider.
I consider the Dey's castle. The Lost Schloss. Now, that's hard to think, let alone say. Lost Schloss. Lost Schloss. Losht Slosh. Loscht Schloscht. I sound like I'm drunk. Schloshed. I giggle. I wonder where the Schloss can be schituated? How do you hide something on a plain? A plain is flat, and a schloss is, well, pointy.
I keep climbing. I'm thirsty. I feel as though I've been climbing forever. I wonder what time it is, what day it is.
I catch up to Norbert. This climbing is hard on him. He's braver and smarter than I am, but not nearly as strong. His eyes are almost shut. His antennae are flat on the top of his head.
“Come on, Norbert,” I say, pushing him upward. His feet point all over the place, making it difficult. “Keep going. It's not too far now.” This doesn't feel like a lie because I really have no idea how far it is. For all I actually know, I might be telling the truth.
He mutters to himself. –Hang on, Nerissa, he says. We're coming.
I keep climbing. My legs and feet hurt. And I'm so-o-o-o thirsty.
Soon it's clear that Norbert can't go on. I put him on my back, with his arms over my shoulders. I keep climbing, carrying him piggyback. “We're nearly there,” I tell him.
And we are. I just don't know where there is.
He falls asleep and begins muttering to himself, having imaginary conversations with Nerissa. –Sorry I'm late, he says. It's all Dingwall's fault.
I can feel Norbert's head swaying back and forth as I make the switchbacks. He snores gently, like a little kid taking a nap. Poor guy, he's totally worn-out.
I keep climbing. The rocks have frost and snow on them now. The mist is getting thinner. It can't be much farther, can it?
Norbert starts talking about me. –You know what I don't like about Dingwall? he says. He's too negative.
He must think he's talking to Nerissa. “You know, I'm right here,” I say.
–No, no. Don't defend him. You don't really know him. I know Dingwall, and he's the biggest Gloomy Gus you'll ever meet. Always ready to fail. Always ready to back out. If only Dingwall knew how much he has going for him, he'd …
“I'd what?” I say, but Norbert has drifted off again.
The climbing seems to be easier. It's almost like floating upwards on the wind. The higher I climb, the less I feel like doing. I'd rather observe life, smiling with infinite understanding, infinite patience, infinite tolerance. I feel like a feather, or a dandelion seed, or a balloon. Except that my feet are killing me.
The mist remains thick below us, but thins to nothing as I look up. The sky overhead is almost clear.
I see a splash of green on the mountainside – the first sign of life.
–Know what else I don't like about Dingwall? says Norbert suddenly.
I look back over my shoulder. His eyes are shut. His head lolls. He's fast asleep.
–Low self-esteem. Dingwall should like himself more.
“Well, you're not helping,” I say.
–I think he's great. He's funny, and creative. He's a good friend.
“I am? I mean, he is?”
–He doesn't have anything to be scared of. But he is scared. He should let himself go more. Be free. He should realize that who he is is okay. He doesn't have to worry about anything. Oh, except for the nose picking. That's gross! Once last week, he almost totalled my kitchen. Flakes of plaster falling from the ceiling, and this giant –
“Hey!” I say. I wiggle my shoulders from side to side. I don't have to listen to this.
As I reach the mountaintop, the mist evaporates. It's clear, cool, and just past dawn. Looking into the distance, I can see the top half of a yellow disc shining palely.
Sunrise. It's a new day. I wonder what happened to the old one. We must have been climbing all night.
My feet need a rest. I fly over to a flat rock and land awkwardly, with Norbert's weight on my back. I put him down, and drop to my knees. A cup-sized hollow in the middle of the rock contains snowmelt. I drink from my hands. The water is cool and sharp tasting. I splash some on my face, then on Norbert's. He wakes up, groaning.
A creature rears up out of a nearby snowdrift. It's as big as a car, with a single eye staring from the top of its box-shaped head, and a single arm sticking straight out from its body like a crane. I can see the bumps and hollows of snap-together pieces. This is another proteor.
A cage hangs from the end of the proteor's arm. It's a colorful box with bars – the kind of cage that holds lions and tigers in the old circus movies. The proteor lowers the cage to the ground, and I see that there's something inside. I wonder what lives in the Sudden Mountains.
The long arm has a hook on the end. It swings towards me in a flash, and the hook catches the belt of my bathrobe. The crane hoists me in the air.
–Oh, no! cries Norbert.
It's a strong belt, made of good thick toweling. I'm hooked, all right. The arm of the crane ratchets in a series of clicks.
Norbert flies over and tears at the hook, yelling at me to do something. I'm philosophical. The proteor's stronger than I am. I guess this is how things are supposed to work out. It's destiny. What can you do?
The proteor gives off a faint smell of lubricating oil. Not unpleasant.
The cage is just below me now. When I see the animal inside, I almost choke.
Norbert is surprised too. –Would you look at that! I thought they were all gone.
A puppy-sized animal, with vibrant gold and crimson stripes. A familiar animal, with pointy ears and a long nose and handles sticking out of its neck. A scared animal, round eyes rolling, trembling legs fitted into two curved wooden rails.
A horse. A rocking horse. My rocking horse.
“Barnaby?” I call down to it, in a gentle voice. “Barnaby, is that you?”
I remember my rocking horse vividly, my favorite plaything until I got too big. I kept him at the foot of my bed, and I loved him more than anything else in the world.
Here on Jupiter, he's alive and trapped in a cage by a snap-together monster. He looks up when he hears his name. I know he can understand me. My heart swells like a wet sponge. I care about him. I really do. I feel so bad for him.
“We've got to save him!” I cry. I forget about fate and free will and things working out the way they do. I cannot let Barnaby be taken to the Black Dey, and broken. I cannot.
I'm right above the cage now, close enough to see how the door works. Barnaby rocks himself over to where I am, and whickers softly and very horsily. The appeal in his eyes is like a hook in my heart.
“Norbert,” I whisper. “I want you to distract the proteor while I get Barnaby out.”
–How are you going to do that? You're hooked.
“Just do it, okay? Talk to him. You're a great talker. I need only thirty seconds or so. Ready? Go!”
Norbe
rt called me a good friend. He's a good friend too. Even before I finish my sentence he's in the air, talking loudly. Sounds like he's pretending to be an image consultant.
–So let me ask you this, Mr. Proteor: what were you thinking when you put yourself together this morning? Did you even look in the mirror? Because you left the house with only one eye. Do you know that? Have you noticed a lack of depth perception? I thought so. Dear, dear. You're going to have to pay more attention to yourself, Mr. Proteor. A little more you time, if you understand me. Oops! Careful there.
I check over my shoulder. Norbert is hovering near the box part of the crane. The proteor flails its crane arm across, narrowly missing him. Norbert keeps talking.
–And I want to talk to you very frankly about your choice of shape….
I can't pull the hook out of my bathrobe belt, but I can untie the knot at the front. The ends of the belt fall, and the hook comes loose. I drop to the ground, landing gently in the snow. I run to the cage, slide open the latch, and reach for Barnaby. He struggles. He is a wild rocking horse, after Mr. Proteor all. But he's not heavy. I gather him into my arms and hold him tight.
“Sorry, Barnaby,” I whisper. “I'm so sorry!”
He nuzzles me in the neck. His striped fur is soft and silky. His nostrils are pink and smooth. His heart beats loudly against my chest.
Time to go. I take a step and fall to the ground. Boy, does that hurt!
Barnaby leaps from my arms and stands nearby, quivering with fear.
I can't believe it. My foot's in a trap. A great big one, with jagged jaws and a spring. The trap is made of yellow and blue snap-together bricks, just like Barnaby's cage, which is … gone. Oh, oh. That was a fast transformation.
What'll I do?
Lying on the ground full length, I cast around for something to break the proteor's snap-together bonds and free myself. All I find are rocks. I keep looking.
I hear Norbert's voice.
–I really think you'd do best to take yourself apart and start again. You're a proteor, right? Right? So you can be anything. Honestly, cranes with hooks are so last season. Windmills are even worse. Everyone remembers their windmill years. Now, are you a ladies' man at all, Mr. Proteor? You are? I thought so. You want the ladies to notice you? Sure you do. Well, here's a tip….
Another rock. I try again. My hands close on a heavy piece of metal. It's rusted, but unmistakable. A sword hilt. I pull it towards me. The sword rings on the stones. I wonder how it got here. Some knight or warrior must have climbed to the top of the Sudden Mountains and fallen in battle to a proteor, leaving his weapon behind for me.
Whoever he was, he was awfully big for a jupiterling. My hand fits the hilt perfectly. The sword feels nicely balanced in my grasp.
A friendly weapon. I don't know how else to put it. My right hand tingles. It's like the sword is saying, Hi, there. I've been waiting for you!
I've never held a real sword before, let alone a used one. Good thing it isn't complicated, like a computer or a car. The manual for our computer is 400 pages long. The typical sword manual would be a lot shorter:
(1) Swing hard.
(2) Cut enemy in half.
(3) Repeat. Battle cry optional.
You'd get the whole thing on one page, even if you put the instructions in twenty languages.
Of course, if you make a mistake with a computer, you can just press the undo key. There's no undo key on a sword. If you miss your stroke and, say, cut off your own leg – well, that's permanent. Get used to hopping.
I'm afraid of cutting my leg off. I sit up straight, and lift the sword over my head. Gosh, it's heavy. I close my eyes, and let it fall.
What a noise it makes! Like a blacksmith's hammer striking the anvil. I open my eyes. The trap is in two wriggling pieces on the ground. The rock is chipped.
I'm free!
“Hey!” I cry aloud. The sword flashes excitement into me. This is a seriously powerful weapon. I mean, I wasn't even trying, and I cut right into the mountain.
I lift the sword, and strike again, and again. Take that, you stupid trap! The pieces split into more pieces. Two more chips appear in the rock. The sword itself is undamaged. It may be my fancy, but it seems lighter, as if it's happy to be used again, after all these years of lying on the mountainside rusting.
The pieces on the ground look like bugs. Nasty wriggling things. I slash at them in a frenzy, chopping them into smaller and smaller pieces. The air fills with a hissing sound, like ice cubes popping.
–Hey, Dingwall, cries Norbert, from over my shoulder. Stop playing with Excalibur. You can't kill a proteor by chop ping it up; you can only make more of them. We've got a minute while the big guy's transforming. Let's get going!
I take a step back. I can feel the sweat running down my body, under my space suit and bathrobe. The little things are wriggling in the snow. I kick at them in disgust.
Norbert's right. It's time to go. The crane is now a heap of wriggling bricks. They're turning into something, though. Something rectangular, with a handle on the short side. I don't want to wait and find out what it is.
I loop the belt of my bathrobe around the sword, and tie it on. I'm bringing it with me. Finally, I have a weapon. A good one, too.
Barnaby looks up at me with his big round eyes. He hasn't moved more than arm's length from me since I pulled him out of the cage. I'd feel so bad if I left him on the mountain with the proteor. And I feel bad enough about him already. “Come here, boy,” I say, kneeling down. He trots over. I pick him up and leap into the air. My slippers do the rest.
Norbert darts a quick interested look at the rocking horse under my arm, but doesn't say anything. He's watching the heap of bricks with a smile on his face and his antennae perked forward eagerly.
–Hey, the big guy is following my fashion advice, he says.
“What'd you tell him he should turn into?”
He coughs. –A toaster.
I peer down. He's right. It's a giant two-slice toaster. Each slice of bread would be about the size of a door.
Barnaby struggles in my arms. I almost drop him, managing to grab him by the neck before he falls. And then he … well, relieves his discomfort. “Relieves” is the word, all right. I don't know if you've ever seen a horse relieve his discomfort, but it's pretty spectacular. My grandma used to sing a song about someone named Jeannie with the light brown hair, flowing like a river in the soft summer air. That's Barnaby, only it isn't his hair that's flowing.
It all lands on the proteor. Barnaby keeps going, producing a full and steady stream of … well, a full and steady stream.
–Look out! cries Norbert.
The proteor is attacking. A huge piece of plastic toast flies out of the slot, heading right for us. I dodge out of the way, keeping Barnaby pointed in the right direction. The toast missile falls to the ground. I aim Barnaby at the open slot.
He's amazing. Like the bunny on TV, he keeps going, and going, and –
–Smoke! cries Norbert.
I peer down. A wisp of black is leaking from the heart of the toaster. Something's gone wrong with the mechanism. “Good for you, Barnaby,” I say.
It feels good to hit back at the proteor. A personal message. Say it with showers.
The smoke gets thicker and darker. Something is burning. The snap-together pieces begin to melt. From up here I can see the bumps and dimples disappear, the straight edges blur and warp. No more transforming for them. There's a loud grinding noise, and one side of the toaster collapses. Norbert and I cheer.
Barnaby's finished. I tuck him under my arm, and fly down the far side of the mountain. The slope is gentle and easy. The wind is gusty, driving a fleet of clouds across the sky like so many purple-gray battleships. Sun and moons peep from behind the clouds, and then disappear behind them again.
Lightning crackles ahead of us, and thunder follows close by. This would have been important to the Ancient Greeks, who believed there were spirits everywhere.* I'm more conce
rned about getting rained on.
It doesn't take us long to reach a plateau – high flat tablelands that stretch into the distance without a break. A sea of grass rippling in the wind.
“Welcome to the Plains of Ich,” says Norbert.
Barnaby is no part of the ancient prophecy. I decide to let him go. But when I release him on the grassy plain, he stands there, looking at me. “Good-bye,” I say. “There's a little pond here, and grass. Have a nice life!”
He doesn't move. I shoo him away. He moves closer, and nuzzles my thigh.
Norbert is drinking from the pond. He comes back, wiping his face, looks at me and Barnaby, and doesn't say anything. After a moment I put the horse under my arm and take off again. Norbert follows me. I ask which direction we should head, and he shrugs his shoulders.
–It's your show now, Dingwall, he says.
*Naiads and Dryads, for instance, were nymphs said to inhabit waters and trees. Other nymphs included Whyads and Paiads, who inhabited interrogative sentences and baked goods. Lemon Meringue Paiads were especially beautiful. For more information on classical mythology, see chapter 12: “Our Friends the Greeks.”
It's a couple of hours later, and we haven't come very far in a straight line. I've been leading us all around the compass trying to avoid the storm, but I can't get the wind to stay at our backs for any length of time. The path of the storm seems to veer with us, so that there's lightning wherever we are headed.
I haven't found the Lost Schloss.
Not a sniff of it. Not close. The Schloss has got to be a big building, but I haven't even found a little building. I haven't found the Lost Bungalow. I haven't found the Lost Tent.
I'm not worried. I figure it doesn't really matter where I look for the Schloss. An orderly search is great if you know all about what you're looking for, but I'm looking for something only I can find. So it's all about me. If I'm supposed to fulfill the prophecy, I will. I'll find the castle when it springs from the ground, or falls from the sky, or materializes out of thin air. Or when it turns up on the horizon.
The Boy from Earth Page 8