The Boy with 17 Senses

by Sheila Grau

  Jaq sighed. He couldn’t afford a freasel. He couldn’t even afford a pair of extra-thick socks to protect his ankles, and they only cost a cheerful 2 damars each. The best he could hope for was some free advice on how to control the nasty biters. Lucky for him, Pests-B-Gone had a help desk, so Jaq got in line behind two farmers. He listened as they talked about their own pest problems.

  “My winnowberry vines are covered with caterpokers,” the first farmer said. “They’re destroying my crop. I can’t get rid of them.”

  “You can pluck ’em off with tweezers,” the second farmer said. “It’s tedious, but if you get rid of the queen, the rest will die. Me, I got critter moles that are eating up all my green leafies.”

  “My aunt had critter moles,” said the first. “She tried everything—traps, poisons, nets. Nothing worked. Someone suggested getting a giant fang-toothed worm, and let me tell you, that did the trick.”

  “What happened?”

  “The worm devoured those critter moles. Just ate ’em all up. Did a splendid job of aerating her soil, too. As soon as the field was clear, the worm’s handler lured it out with some fresh meat, and her fields were ready for planting.”

  “Sounds expensive.”

  “It was a few hundred damars past expensive, my friend.”

  The men seemed knowledgeable, so Jaq decided to ask them for advice. “Are you talking about garden pests? ’Cause I got a bad case of wippers, and I don’t know how to get rid of them.”

  The two farmers bolted away from Jaq as fast as they could run, which might seem rude, but they didn’t even want to hear the word wipper for fear of Contagion by Mention, which is a thing on Yipsmix. You overhear someone talk about something, and before you know it, you’ve caught it, too.

  Jaq watched them leave and shrugged. At least he was at the front of the line now. He stepped forward, and the woman behind the desk looked at him with her eyebrows raised. Jaq leaned in and whispered, “I’ve got . . . you know,” and he reached down and pinched his ankles. “And they tease me.”

  The woman nodded. “These freasels have all been trained to sling the . . . you-know-whats.”

  “I can’t afford them.”

  “We have some extra-thick socks to protect your ankles,” she offered.

  But Jaq didn’t hear her. He was still gazing at the freasels. Their glossy fur, the little chirp sounds they made, the way their long bodies looked like tightly wound springs. He stood there for a few minutes, until he felt the woman watching him.

  He shrugged and turned to go.

  “Wait,” she said, coming around the counter. “I shouldn’t be telling you this—my boss doesn’t like me sending customers away—but there’s a guy I know. His freasel just had a litter of frips. One of them is a runt, and he says he’s going to let it die. I told him he couldn’t, and he told me if I wanted to save it, I had to take it. But I can’t bring home any more animals. Here.” She wrote down his address. “Tell him Kithorly sent you.”

  A huge smile burst across Jaq’s face. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you so much!”

  “He’s just a runt,” Jaq said as he showed the tiny creature to his mother and grandfather. “A farmer was going to let him die. He might not even survive.”

  “Jaq!” His mother was angry; he could tell by the way red splotches appeared on her neck. “I told you, no pets!”

  “I’ll feed him myself,” Jaq said. “You won’t have to do anything. Mom, please. Please let me keep him. You know I wouldn’t say please unless it was really important.” The word please had a sweet, oily taste. It was the kind of word that got really annoying if it was used too much.

  “He won’t live through the night,” Grandpa predicted. “Sorry, kiddo.”

  “Please,” he said again, wincing. “I’ll never ask for anything again.”

  “Darn it, Jaq,” his mother said. “I wish I didn’t have to come home to more problems. I have enough of them at work.”

  “Please, Mom,” Jaq said. “Having a freasel—it’s my dream come true.”

  “I dream of getting my land back from that farm-stealing Ripley Vilcot,” said Grandpa. “But a little pet is nice, too, I guess.”

  The baby freasel was so small and frail that Jaq was afraid to touch him. He scooped up the little frip as if he were picking up a thin-shelled rickle egg, the kind that cracks if you so much as breathe on it.

  He was so beautiful, with reddish-brown fur, a white belly, four stubby little legs, and two arm buds popping out of his front shoulders. So tiny!

  Jaq’s chest filled up, up, up with joy.

  “What are you going to name him?” Grandpa asked, leaning in for a look.

  “Klingdux,” Jaq said. He’d had the name picked out forever.

  “Like the superhero?” Grandpa said. “Good choice.”

  Jaq didn’t sleep a wink that night; he sat up watching Klingdux, willing the tiny creature to keep breathing.

  “You’re a superhero, little buddy,” he whispered. “You’re stronger than anything.”

  He dripped milk into Klingdux’s mouth from a spoon whenever his new pet woke up, but mostly the little critter slept.

  Live, Jaq begged. Please live.

  4

  THE SOUND OF CRYING IS MAROON—IT DANCES AROUND UNTIL YOU NOTICE IT

  By now you may have noticed that Yipsmixers don’t sense the world in quite the same way as most people do on Earth, or Zanflid, or Epsidor Erandi. Yipsmixers taste words. They see numbers as having both color and personality. But that’s not all; they also see sounds. To them, sounds have color and shape and movement. Some people on Earth have senses like this, and it’s called synesthesia. This extrasensory ability doesn’t have a name on Zanflid or Epsidor Erandi.

  When a Yipsmixer looks at a tree filled with chirping birds, those chirping sounds make tiny blasts of red appear, like exploding apples. Listening to music is like watching a flowing tapestry of light and color that swirls through a person’s vision. And the sound of crying looks like jumpy tangles of maroon floating like streamers.

  Jaq’s first night with Klingdux was filled with jagged maroon streaks that woke him whenever he drifted off to sleep. He didn’t mind, though, because crying meant that Klingdux was still alive.

  Jaq watched his pet carefully over the next few days. He noted which colors swirled out of Klingdux when he whimpered, growled, or hissed. Most Yipsmixers are very good with animals, because they communicate with all their senses. Jaq not only heard every noise his frip made—he saw and tasted and felt those noises, too. He soon learned that a whimper that filled his vision with frothy orange bubbles meant hunger. Yellow blasts meant pain. Velvety purple swirls meant “Play with me.” Sometimes the whimpers were so faint, he couldn’t hear them, but he saw them.

  He listened and watched and tasted and learned, and he kept Klingdux alive.

  Weeks passed, and Klingdux grew bigger and stronger. During those weeks, Jaq braved the merciless herd of wippers every day, telling himself that soon, soon, his freasel would be ready.

  Jaq shared everything with Klingdux: his food, his narrow bed in the corner of the one-room house, and his blanket. He used his farmers’ market money to buy special freasel food. Taking care of Klingdux made Jaq feel capable and happy, especially in Rumbletime, when the skies thundered worse than an angry Vilcot who didn’t get to cut in line at the carnival. Klingdux would curl his shaking body next to Jaq, making Jaq feel like the brave one. He was the best friend Jaq had ever had.

  Klingdux grew stronger every day. He was quick and agile on those four short legs. His long, sleek body scurried and twisted through the house, which wasn’t a problem until his arms grew in. As soon as those little arm buds on his front shoulders lengthened, the baby freasel started grabbing anything he could reach. He’d clutch his prize, then spin around like a discus thrower and sling it across the room.

  Jaq smiled and laughed at his frisky pet. “Isn’t he fantastic?”

  His mother rolled h
er eyes. His grandfather shook his head and mouthed the word no, but Jaq didn’t see that.

  After Klingdux broke two cups, a plate, and his mother’s reading glasses, Jaq made a ball out of rags and let Klingdux sling that. Soon the thumping sound of the rag hitting a wall filled the house whenever Klingdux was awake.

  “Enough!” his mother screamed one evening after a long day at the hushware factory. “I want that little ball of destruction out!”

  “But, Mom,” Jaq said. “He’s too small. He’s not ready.”

  “You put him outside or I will,” she said, her neck turning purple. “He’s woken me up every night, and I can’t take it anymore.”

  Jaq’s heart fell, but he picked up his pet and headed outside with his blanket. He wasn’t going to let Klingdux sleep alone. They curled up on the back porch together and slept.

  The next morning, Jaq woke up with the sun. Klingdux slept peacefully next to him, wrapped in the blanket. Jaq stood and stretched.

  “Klingdux, I really don’t think you’re ready for this,” he said.

  Klingdux popped up, his lithe body swiveling in happiness.

  “Those wippers are so fast and vicious. And you’re so small.” Jaq walked to the edge of the porch and looked out over the ripweed field. The stalks seemed to be shooing him away as they swayed in the breeze, as if they were warning him of danger.

  Klingdux followed him to the edge of the porch. “Stay,” Jaq commanded, holding up a hand. Klingdux sat down and waited.

  Jaq prepared to enter the field. The ripweed stalks were as high as his waist. He looked back at Klingdux, who was watching him intently. Jaq swallowed over a lump in his throat. He hoped Klingdux was ready, but what if he wasn’t? What would those wippers do to him? There were so many of them, and only one Klingdux.

  Jaq stepped into the field. The morning was quiet, and Jaq could feel his heart thumping. This is it, he thought. This is what he’s meant to do. He can do it.

  But what if he can’t?

  Another step. He sensed the eyes of the wippers on him. He imagined they were taking their time, letting him suffer in suspense as they thought up the perfect insult. Suddenly, panic flooded his body. He couldn’t do this to Klingdux. Klingdux wasn’t ready.

  Jaq turned to go inside. But it was too late.

  “Oh, look—it’s the kid with bangs.” A wipper had cut off Jaq’s route back to the porch. When Jaq turned around, he saw that he was surrounded. He’d fallen into their ambush. “You ever think about shaving the whole mess off?”

  “Yeah, bald is in,” said another.

  The sound of wipper laughter filled the air.

  “Not with that head,” another said. “He’d look like a melted snow cone.”

  More laughter.

  “Or a half-filled balloon, waiting for more air to lift it up.”

  The other wippers agreed. And laughed.

  “Or . . . um . . . a bald kid with a misshapen head.”

  This one was followed by silence.

  “Good grief, Bonip. Use a simile or something.”

  “Sorry. Um . . . like a green leafy cabbage, except not green, or leafy, or cabbage-y, but the same roundish shape? And then, um, sort of squished?”

  “Somebody hit him for me,” said the first.

  As the wippers fought among themselves, Jaq looked back at Klingdux, who was shaking with desire to run into the field. He’d seen the wippers. Jaq could tell he wanted to sling them.

  “Let’s bite his ankles,” one of the wippers said, and Jaq felt a sharp pain by his foot. When he swung around, another attacked from behind, just like always. They hopped away from his kicks with tremendously high jumps. It was as if they had powerful springs in their hind legs. They were infuriating.

  And they were everywhere. Jaq couldn’t take it anymore, so he shouted, “Klingdux!”

  Swift as a sandstorm, Klingdux raced off the porch and into the field, his long body twisting around plants. He swooshed through the stalks, sneaking up on the nearest wipper and grabbing it with his long arms. He whirled about in a tornado of spinning, and then—whoosh! He let the wipper fly.

  It was a spectacular display of athleticism. A thing of beauty! Like watching a wrestling match of graceful dance moves.

  “Look out! Wipper-slinger!” the wippers cried.

  Jaq could feel the panic of the wippers as they scurried and hopped, but Klingdux was just too fast. He ran them down and threw them, again and again. And when the wippers jumped into the air to escape, soaring higher than Jaq’s head, Klingdux would track their flight and be waiting when they landed. And then he’d sling them over the plants and across the field, and, if it was a really good sling, the wipper would hit a tree and fall down—splat! They always shook themselves and got back up, but the tree-hit wippers took a little longer to return.

  Jaq smiled so wide, his face hurt. Sure, those pesky wippers would be back. They always came back. But he’d have at least a couple of hours to work in peace, and that was just fine. Klingdux could just sling them again. Over and over.

  It was the best, happiest morning of Jaq’s life.

  5

  THE HIGH FREQUENCY OF ENVY

  Someone else was watching Jaq’s freasel work, and that someone was Jaq’s next-door neighbor, Tormy Vilcot. From his second-floor room in the very house that used to belong to Jaq’s grandfather, Tormy could see right down into the Rollops’ field. And because he had no homework to do, he had plenty of time to stare out the window and dream about swimming pools.

  Every day, Tormy Vilcot watched Jaq walk to school with his wipper-slinger. He watched Jaq walk home with his wipper-slinger. He watched Jaq laugh and run and play with his wipper-slinger. And when he had nothing to do because Jaq was doing his homework, Tormy Vilcot watched that beautiful freasel sling wippers. It made him laugh out loud—until he realized something.

  Jaq Rollop has a wipper-slinger, and I don’t.

  Tormy Vilcot’s ears started to ring. They buzzed and hummed like a tornado, or a fly he couldn’t swat away. Tormy didn’t like that droning buzz.

  When Jaq came over with Tormy’s homework, Tormy offered him ten damars for his wipper-slinger, but Jaq laughed in his face.

  “Twenty damars?” Tormy offered.

  “Klingdux isn’t for sale,” Jaq said. “Why don’t you go to Pests-B-Gone? They’ve got a bunch of them there.”

  Tormy didn’t want a freasel from Pests-B-Gone. He wanted Jaq’s freasel, and he wanted Jaq to have no freasel. That was two wants buzzing in his ear, and he couldn’t stand it.

  “I’m doing you a favor, you dumb lump,” Tormy said. “With twenty damars you could buy another freasel yourself and have enough left over to get some new clothes.” He pointed to Jaq’s shirt. “The Cruxlump Warriors aren’t even a team anymore. They folded twelve years ago.”

  “Sorry, but he’s not for sale.”

  Ringgggggggg, buzzzzzzzz.

  Sometimes the whine in Tormy’s head would go away, but it would zing right back if he saw Jaq or the wipper-slinger, or if someone said the word homework, which tasted like seaweed and reminded him of Jaq and his wipper-slinger.

  Tormy felt assaulted by this reverberating ring. It made him very irritable. No one would have noticed the difference, because he was always irritable, but now he was violently irritable. He punched walls, he kicked fence posts, and he screamed at his family.

  His parents tried to bribe him with sweets. They tried to appease his envy with toys. They bought him a new pet of his own, a rare and expensive tippi bird. None of it worked.

  “I WANT THAT WIPPER-SLINGER!” he screamed at dinner.

  His grandfather, the wealthy Ripley Vilcot, placed a shiny gold package on the table.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Tormy’s mother said, her whole face beaming with fake-surprise happiness.

  “Yes,” his grandfather replied. “And it cost me more than my new Arbian foal.”

  “Oh, Tormy, you are such a lucky kid,” his
mother said. “It’s glug!” She reverently pushed the small box closer to Tormy. “You can’t buy this at the marketplace. You have to know someone. Your friends will be so jealous.”

  His grandfather unwrapped a piece of his own glug and popped it into his mouth. He chewed and chewed, and then blew a huge bubble. When it popped, the noise made a burst of yellow stars appear in Tormy’s vision. They looked like they were shooting out from his grandfather’s face. Tormy’s mother laughed and clapped her hands.

  “Not every kid gets to chew fresh glug,” his grandfather said. “You can pop bubbles in your friends’ faces. And think of all the things you can do with a nicely chewed wad of glug. That’s valuable stuff, right there. You could save it, and someday you’ll have enough for your own soundproof glug room! Or add it to your glug trophy display. Or—”

  “I don’t want glug!” Tormy screamed, snatching the pack and shoving it in his pocket, because he did want it. Glug was one of the most valuable things on Yipsmix—who wouldn’t want it? “I want that wipper-slinger!”

  His grandfather clenched his teeth and blew out through his nose. He seemed to come to a decision. “Then you shall have it,” he said. “No Vilcot goes without.”

  6

  SPEAKING WITH YOUR HANDS IS EASIER WHEN YOU WEAR THE RIGHT GLOVES

  The next day, Ripley Vilcot put on his riding gloves—the everyday pair, not the fancy evening pair, or the casual pair, or the “Don’t mess with me, I’m angry” pair—and climbed onto his prizewinning Arbian mount. He rode out of his stable and down his driveway. From there, it was a short hop down the road to the Rollops’ farm. Arbians are fantastic hoppers.

  This place would make a perfect annex to my farm, he thought, looking at the Rollops’ measly spread. I could tear down that one-room shack they call a house and build a gazebo, draped with winnowberry vines. I could replace that pathetic garden with a nice lawn, and bulldoze that ripweed field and put in Tormy’s pool—maybe with a statue of me in the middle. It would be so much more pleasurable to look out on myself, rather than this dry and dusty eyesore.