Locksmith

by Nicholas Maes

  “Is it me,” Adelaide muttered, “or does this light seem familiar?”

  “It’s a form of desynapsis,” Todrus explained. “There must be a mineral —”

  “That’s not what I mean,” Adelaide snapped. “I’m referring to the poem the two of you recited. Wasn’t there a line about a glowing stone?”

  “‘Hidden in the earth from sight / its kind blue glow enkindles light,’” the Stranger chanted.

  “You see?” Adelaide said. “It’s describing the stone around us.”

  “I guess,” Gibiwink agreed. “But what does it mean?”

  “How does the first bit go?” Adelaide prodded. “You know, that part about —”

  “‘I have no walls, no chains, no bars / My prisoner’s free to view the stars,’” the Stranger sang.

  “It sounds like the poem is describing a jail,” Gibiwink ventured.

  “That’s it!” Lewis cried, remembering his train of thought before Adelaide had stumbled on the “future” potion. “That poem is an answer to some of our problems.”

  As the group listened closely, he explained how his mother’s songs had contained clues for picking open her locks. That meant the song they had heard at Yellow Swamp was a formula for “cracking” the lock she had installed. So the I in the poem was the lock itself and its key was the three different objects she had mentioned — a blue stone, a daffodil, and a weed on a tree. Once these objects were applied to the lock, its mechanism would somehow come undone.

  “So if we find these three objects —” Todrus began.

  “Two objects,” Adelaide interrupted, motioning with her chin to the rock in the walls. “We’ve already found the first of them.”

  “Two objects,” Todrus agreed. “Then we can head to the swamp and the rest should be easy.”

  “That’s assuming we survive these ants,” Alfonse groaned.

  The ants! By now they seemed to be nearing their goal. The way was blocked by two large boulders, and their guards were waving their antennae in excitement. The group could hear a raucous din ahead — it sounded like the shouts from a baseball stadium.

  “I don’t like this,” Gibiwink whispered.

  They approached the boulders. Between them was an opening wide enough to let the stretchers pass. The ants hauled them one by one through this crack, brushing each “passenger” with their six-foot antennae.

  The light was almost blinding. It turned out there was so much of the blue stone present that it was casting enough light to outshine New York City. Once his eyes had adjusted to the glow, Lewis saw they were trapped in an underground cavern, one much bigger than an airplane hangar and with a ceiling that stood two hundred feet from the ground. Despite the cavern’s size, the space seemed … overcrowded.

  Their escort was nothing like the hordes that greeted them. There were ants by the thousands, a whole city of them. They were arranged in lines that filled every inch of the cavern — like an invading army mustered for review. While their bodies were held at strict attention, their antennae jiggled back and forth, and Lewis felt seasick from this carpet of motion.

  “This isn’t good,” Adelaide groaned.

  Their guards stopped and set the stretchers down. They then stood their captives on their feet but didn’t cut them loose. Because he had wriggled free of his bonds, Lewis searched his book for something helpful, being careful not to draw the guards’ attention. He scanned the Bs for bug repellent, the Ss for sprays, the Fs for fumigation. Nothing. In desperation he ransacked the Ts for trap, trance, or termination. Then traction, transformation, translation, transparent …

  As he read, the ants opened a path in their ranks. It ran for maybe a hundred yards and ended against a pale blue boulder that was easily the size of a three-storey building and bathed the cavern in its turquoise brilliance. Half a dozen guards hustled the group forward, and as they navigated the path it closed behind them. Lines of ants were poised on every side, nosily grinding their mandibles together. The friends struggled to maintain their composure.

  A minute later they were standing in front of the rock, which they could now see had been carved into a throne. Resting in its middle was the colony’s queen.

  She was … elephantine. Her legs were maybe ten feet long, while her thorax and egg sac were the size of a truck. Her mandibles resembled a bulldozer’s blades, and her eyes were like two TV screens, only black and empty and impossible to read. Strange to say, she seemed completely drained of energy.

  An ant stood next to the throne, larger than the others but nothing like the queen. This figure flicked its antennae at the guards, who quickly snipped their prisoners loose. It then began to motion in the group’s direction.

  “It’s trying to speak,” Adelaide said. “I read somewhere that ants communicate this way.”

  “You’re right,” Todrus agreed. “And it wants us to answer.” Sure enough, the ant repeated its gestures with what seemed to be impatience.

  “I have an idea,” Lewis said. Returning to the Ts in his instruction book, he looked up translation, an entry he had spotted earlier. Lewis followed the recipe and selected vials of hydroxyalienisothene, nitroglyceridalienase, and aliendioxycide — the last of these was as black as licorice. As the ant signalled with mounting irritation, he hastily put the brew together, using his severed bonds as his “mixing base.” The gesturing ant was getting angrier when the rope turned green. Without wasting time, Lewis bit into this mixture — it tasted like hot dogs with cantaloupe mixed in — and urged his friends to do the same.

  The effect was instantaneous. One moment he was hearing unintelligible squeaks; the next he grasped their meaning perfectly, as if he had been listening to a radio’s static and had finally tuned into an actual station. The others ate the rope, Gibiwink last of all.

  “I am Thwashskaflr, adviser to the Shthaflr colony. What are your names? And why were you travelling through the giant grass?”

  “Answer! Don’t leave our adviser waiting!” the guards shouted. Beneath their anger, Lewis sensed a certain gloom, as if they were faced with an impending disaster.

  What happened next surprised him. Without thinking twice, as if he had been doing it all his life, he began to gibber and motion with his fingers. “I am Lewis Castorman. I come from a distant nest called Mason Springs, and we are travelling through the grass to the swamp that is yellow.”

  “Greetings, Lewis from Mason Springs,” Thwashkaflr answered. “Who are your companions? Let them identify themselves.”

  One by one they introduced themselves, and it was odd to see them “talking” with their fingers. Only Gibiwink couldn’t make himself clear — by the time he had swallowed the last of the rope, most of the concoction had been eaten already. Instead of saying, “I’m Gibiwink from Yellow Swamp in Alberta,” his words got twisted into, “The barnacle has cheese wings and cannot eat a pencil.”

  “Let us converse,” Thwashkaflr gibbered with a puzzled look. “No doubt you wish to discover why we have led you here against your will.”

  “Your need must be great,” Lewis said diplomatically.

  “Indeed, you have spoken well. Our queen — may she flourish forever — has been stricken with an illness. While sound of thorax, she moves not, eats not, and lays no eggs. If her sickness lingers, our colony will die.”

  “What’s this about toaster ovens?” Gibiwink whispered, misinterpreting the adviser’s words.

  “I’ll explain to you later,” Adelaide whispered back.

  “As you observe,” Thwashkaflr continued, “our nature has been altered. We are large and our faculties have been graced with understanding. After much thought, our counsellors determined our queen — may she flourish forever — is sick within her soul. In short, her majesty — may she flourish forever — suffers because she knows not laughter.”

  “Laughter?” Todrus repeated, taken aback.

  “Laughter?” Lewis and the others echoed.

  “Frying pans?” Gibiwink cried.

 
“Consequently,” Thwashkaflr declared, “you must amuse our queen — may she flourish forever — so that she overcomes her sadness and yields us eggs again. A colony without eggs is no colony at all.”

  Alfonse chuckled. “Make the queen laugh? A piece of cake.”

  “But be warned,” Thwashkaflr cried, her mandibles snapping. “Failure will lead to punishment. Our queen — may she flourish forever — will laugh, or you will suffer terribly!”

  “Hey! That’s not fair!” the group protested with a click of their heels.

  A thousand ants took three steps forward. The friends fell silent and swallowed hard. The queen’s inability to laugh was no laughing matter.

  “We will begin immediately!” Thwashkaflr announced. “Who will be first?”

  “There’s no entry for laughing gas,” Lewis whispered — again he had been reading his instruction book. “I hope one of us knows a few good jokes.”

  “Frogs aren’t known for their sense of humour,” Todrus groaned.

  “Don’t worry,” Alfonse said. “I’ll have the queen in stitches. Over here!” he called to Thwashkaflr. “Prepare yourselves for some great entertainment.”

  “I hope so for your sake,” Thwashkaflr signalled, leading Alfonse forward.

  “Good day, Your Majesty,” Alfonse greeted, waving his fingers in front of the queen. “I’m here to tell you a couple of jokes. Why did the frog paint his flippers red?”

  The queen showed no interest in this question.

  “So he wouldn’t be confused with a toad!” Alfonse answered.

  “That’s terrible,” Todrus said.

  “He’s going to get us killed,” Adelaide groaned.

  “Why’s he talking about propellers?” Gibiwink asked.

  “I’m just warming up,” Alfonse continued. “What’s a frog’s favourite song? Give up? ‘A Froggy Day in London Town.’”

  “It’s not working,” Todrus muttered, motioning to the queen who had turned her head toward the throne.

  “Here’s my favourite,” Alfonse prattled on. “What’s a frog’s favourite soft drink? You want a hint? Croaka-cola!”

  “Enough!” Thwashkaflr shouted as two guards dragged Alfonse back to his friends. “Your jokes aren’t helping! Who’s next?”

  “I’ll give it a shot,” Todrus said. Moving forward, he signalled the queen, “Tell me please, Your Majesty, what’s the difference between a steak and a TV set?”

  “Does she know what a TV is?” Adelaide whispered.

  “You can’t barbecue a TV set!” Todrus cried with a bark of laughter.

  The queen wasn’t impressed.

  “So tell me this, Your Highness,” Todrus went on, “what’s the difference between a trumpet and a grand piano? You give up? You can’t build a fire with a trumpet!”

  The group, except Gibiwink, laughed. For her part the queen didn’t stir.

  “How about this?” Todrus babbled. “What’s the difference between a Stradivarius and Havarti cheese? You can’t use Havarti cheese as a doorstop!”

  The group whooped with laughter, all but Gibiwink who was riffling through his manual. Unfortunately, the ants were unaffected. Thwashkaflr, in fact, was even angrier, and the guards hauled Todrus away from the queen.

  “Next!” the adviser yelled by stamping her front legs against the ground.

  Lewis then picked an imaginary lock, and Adelaide and the Stranger performed a comic sketch, in which they pretended to be adrift in the Pother. While their friends were almost crying with laughter, the ants betrayed no sign of amusement.

  “Who’s next?” Thwashkaflr roared. Signalling to Gibiwink, she yelled, “I see there’s only one of you left. He better succeed or …”

  “Gibiwink, concentrate!” Todrus implored, even as Thwashkaflr steered him to the queen. At the same time the ants stepped closer to their “guests” on the assumption they would be attacking them in a matter of seconds.

  Now Gibiwink had long suspected there was something wrong with the translation brew. In fact, he was preparing himself a fresh batch when Thwashkaflr yanked him forward. That meant he couldn’t talk to the queen — not intelligibly at least — and he couldn’t close the vials that were open in his belt.

  “Hello,” he gibbered politely. “My name’s Gibiwink, and it’s nice to meet you.” That was what he had intended to say. The queen and the ants had heard a different message, though: “Why are sausages blue? My carpet has a cough.”

  The queen turned her head from the throne, while the ants twitched their antennae in confusion, not knowing what to make of this nonsense.

  “My translation brew is off,” Gibiwink explained, “and that’s why everything sounds so peculiar. If you’ll give me a minute, I can mix a fresh batch.”

  The ants heard: “The window hates raisins. Do you eat toothpicks, too?”

  “What’s he doing?” Alfonse hissed. “Our lives are at stake!”

  Lewis was too busy to answer. He was flipping through his book in search of a solution. There was a recipe for sleeping gas, but it would knock them out along with their aggressors. The same was true of the volcanic eruption, while the fire grenade seemed a little extreme. That left him with the smokescreen, but by now his motions had attracted the guards.

  “Let go!” Lewis cried as they seized his arms.

  “Hey! What’s going on?” the others yelled as a cluster of guards assailed them, too. The message was clear: unless Gibiwink came through, all of them were doomed.

  “I was never good at mixing things,” the frog was saying. “Take cooking, for example. Every meal I prepare always comes out wrong, even toast and frozen waffles.”

  The ants heard: “The fork is hammering the napkin. My toenail is a suitcase.”

  “He’s making them upset,” the Stranger murmured.

  That was true. The ants were breaking ranks and jostling one another to look at the frog who was sputtering such rubbish. The queen, too, had risen to her feet and was probing Gibiwink’s face with her antennae.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know any jokes,” the frog continued. “In fact, I’m not much good at anything. Todrus is clever and knows a lot of chemistry, while Lewis …”

  The ants heard: “Your brain is weak. Give me melons, or I’ll bite your moustache.”

  “That’s done it,” Adelaide whimpered. “Now they’re really angry.”

  Lewis glanced up. The ants were grinding their mandibles together, and the queen was still probing Gibiwink and rubbing her antennae against his nostrils.

  That was when the frog sneezed. The antennae tickled the inside of his nose, and he couldn’t stop himself from letting loose. His sneeze was so powerful, in fact, that it hurled him back a couple of feet and caused his vials to mix their contents together.

  There was a bright flash followed by a ball of smoke. A dark brown foam oozed from Gibiwink’s belt and half buried the frog in popping bubbles — luckily, they had a chocolatey smell. Seconds later the queen was also swimming in foam.

  The ants were shocked. They had never witnessed such a sight before — a frog swimming in chocolate froth — and never had their queen been so badly treated. Lewis screwed his eyes closed and waited for the worst to happen.

  A minute passed. There was utter silence. Then the queen’s mouth opened and she … hiccuped.

  Lewis opened one eye. By now the froth was staining the queen’s egg sac. Again she hiccuped, then rolled in the foam.

  “We’ve killed her!” Alfonse cried. “Now we’re really in trouble.”

  But she wasn’t dead — the opposite, in fact. Her legs were kicking playfully, her antennae slapped the stone, and she was half delirious with laughter, to the point she couldn’t sit on the throne. And her kicks and thrashing must have jiggled something loose. To the ants’ amazement and intense delight, spheres like Ping Pong balls started spilling from her egg sac. When one such ball rolled up against Thwashkaflr, the grim adviser started laughing, as well. That set the entire colony off.
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br />   “They’re laughing!” Lewis shouted. “Gibiwink made them laugh!”

  “Hurray, Gibiwink!” everyone cried.

  “Again my recipe turned out wrong,” he groaned.

  The ants kept laughing for the next few minutes, even as eggs continued to spill from the queen. It was only minutes later that the adviser called for silence.

  “My friends,” Thwashkaflr panted, “congratulations! Our queen — may she flourish forever — is cured and producing eggs again. True to our word, we will conduct you to the surface. In addition, we would like to thank you with a gift. Inform us of your heart’s desire — diamonds, gold, we possess such treasures in abundance — and we will procure these riches instantly.”

  As Alfonse pictured himself with a roomful of comics, and Adelaide imagined a grand piano in their living room, and the others dreamed of other comforts, Lewis spoke on their behalf.

  “Could we have a piece of the blue stone?” he gibbered.

  No sooner had he spoken than the queen ripped a chunk of the stone from her seat. “I would give you the entire throne,” she signalled, “if you and your friends could carry it home. You have saved our colony, and for that we are grateful.”

  The cavern of ants applauded again by tapping their feet against the soil. At the same time Lewis’s friends started clapping, as well, understanding he had chosen wisely. They were one step closer to opening Grumpel’s lock.

  After expressing a few more words of gratitude, the queen ordered fifteen ants to lead their guests to the surface. Alfonse muttered that this was all a little rushed and the least they could do was throw their rescuers a party. Ants were industrious creatures, however, and with things back to normal, they wanted to return to work.

  As Lewis entered a tunnel and left the cavern behind, the blue stone safely stashed in his belt, he heard the queen gibbering in the distance. Now that she had mastered the trick of laughing, she wanted to practise it as much as she could.

  CHAPTER 12

  The ants took them to the surface by the quickest route available. They walked through tunnels for more than an hour until they spied a crack of light in the distance — natural light and not the stone’s blue glow. The friends hurried forward and, five minutes later, emerged into the fresh spring air. Everyone was happy to be outside, away from the shadows and the earth’s dank smells. Their mission accomplished, the ants gibbered goodbye and hastened back to their companions below.