The Crystal Lair (Inventor-in-Training)

by D. M. Darroch

  For an hour Mrs. Clark had run behind Angus holding tightly to the seat of his bike, counted to three, and let go. For an hour Angus had balanced for a split second before tipping slowly sideways and tumbling to the ground. To his credit, he hadn’t cried, not even when he scraped the heel of his hand the first time or bumped his knee the third time. They had stopped after that first hour, not because Angus had given up, but because Mrs. Clark had twisted her ankle and insisted they try again the next day.

  They hadn’t needed to try again the next day. Late that night, Mrs. Clark had woken with one of her maternal alerts. When Angus’s bed was proven empty and she had searched the entire house for him in vain, a noise from the driveway had caused her to peek out the front door. There he had sat, perched atop the seat of his bicycle, careening up and down the driveway. He had been completely asleep.

  So she hadn’t been surprised to see him pacing the bottom of the driveway holding that strange, homemade weapon. When she’d attempted to hustle him back into the house, he had protested, insisting that it was his turn on sentry duty. He had told her the monster might come back and asked her again if she knew where Bonnie was. She knew it was a bad idea to wake a sleepwalker and guessed that it was equally unwise to argue with one in the middle of the street, so she had told Angus that the monster had already been killed by a valiant warrior so there was no need for anyone to be on sentry duty and that Bonnie was spending the night with her grandmother. He had accepted this without a word and allowed himself to be led back to bed where he had closed his eyes immediately.

  Mrs. Clark had not been so lucky. She had lain awake until just before dawn. She would be asleep still, if she hadn’t heard the unmistakable sounds of her son preparing some breakfast in the kitchen. She knew he would begin making the pancakes, and following her sleepless night, she had no energy left to clean up after the eager chef.

  Gus stood in front of the sink, hands hidden from view, head bent intently to his task. His grinning face turned to greet her when he heard her footsteps.

  “Good morning, Mother! Why don’t you relax this morning? I’m cooking breakfast to celebrate the good news!”

  “What’s that, honey?”

  Gus continued to work on something in the sink. “Well, the slaying of the monster, of course! But who did it? Was it one of the men after they returned from the hunt?”

  “You remember me saying that?” Angus never had any recollection of his sleepwalking adventures the next morning.

  “Of course! Will there be a feast today to celebrate the mammoth kill and the death of the monster?”

  “Angus, are you feeling quite well? Has your temperature come down?” Mrs. Clark approached him to lay her hand on his forehead. She glimpsed the sink basin and let out a blood-curdling shriek.

  Mr. Clark loved weekend mornings. Sleeping until you were rested. No annoying alarm clocks. Fragrant coffee with warm, sweet pancakes. Enough time to read as much news as you liked.

  Nobody to jostle you awake, yelling “Get up! It’s your turn! I’ve been up all night, and I’m done. You deal with it!” before slamming the bathroom door.

  Mr. Clark rubbed his eyes, sat up, and wondered if it was Monday already and he had slept through the weekend. He jiggled the knob on the bathroom door, but it was locked. He put his face to the door jamb and cooed, “Honey, what’s going on?”

  His delicate, loving wife barked out a collection of syllables that could have made the saltiest sailor reach for his dictionary. He heard the water running in the bath. The unmistakable aroma of Belinda’s Bath Salts #45: Nerve Knock-Out drifted under the door. Mr. Clark wondered what his son had done this morning.

  He grabbed a sweatshirt and athletic shorts. If he was up this early, at least he could squeeze in a workout. He clomped down the stairs and into the kitchen. His son was working diligently at the sink.

  “Good morning, Father!” called the cheerful boy without looking up.

  “Good morning!” echoed Mr. Clark. He reached for the coffee pot. It was empty. Mr. Clark sighed and opened the cupboard where the coffee beans were stored. He poured some into the grinder, loaded a fresh filter, and reached for the glass coffee pot.

  “Can I squeeze in here, Angus?” He jostled his way to the sink, turned the faucet on, and filled the pot. The hot water had started to drip through the filter into the coffee pot before what he had seen in the sink registered in his brain. He looked into the sink again and gagged. He turned around, drew in two deep breaths, forced the bile in his throat back down, and asked his son, “What are you butchering in the sink?”

  “Just a little breakfast, Father. I thought we should celebrate the death of the monster.”

  “Ummm, yes, Angus. And what exactly is the type of monster you’ve slaughtered in your mother’s kitchen sink?”

  The boy laughed. “Very funny, Father. I know these are really small squirrels, but they were all I could find. I set a few snares last night before I went out on sentry duty. That was before Mother told me the monster was slain! Did you kill it, Father? Or was it Billy’s father? Or someone else?”

  “You set snares in our backyard?” Mr. Clark was equal parts repulsed by the carnage in the kitchen and impressed by his son’s hunting skills.

  “Of course.” Gus dangled three tiny squirrel skins. “They’re small, but Mother might have enough to make mittens for Bonnie. When she’s back from Granny’s.” He turned his attention back to the sink.

  Mr. Clark looked on, fascinated and disgusted, as his son removed the organs from the furless squirrel carcasses. A flickering light outside caught his eye.

  “Angus! There’s a fire in your mother’s herb garden!”

  “Yes, it seemed the best place to roast the squirrels.”

  Mr. Clark watched his wife’s prize rosemary bush burst into flame. His mouth flapped open and shut as the purple flowers of the sage bush popped one after another, distributing sparks freely among the lavender and thyme.

  “Water, water!” he babbled before remembering the kitchen fire extinguisher and tripped out the door. Gus wiped his bloody hands on his pajama pants and followed him.

  Sir Schnortle jumped to the kitchen counter and looked through the window. Mr. Clark distributed white foam freely around the garden. Gus trampled any herbs that still smoldered after the extinguisher was empty. The cat looked into the sink and his amber eyes glittered. He growled deeply in his throat and licked the saliva that was beginning to flow over his fangs. He thudded into the metal basin and began to eat.

  Mr. Clark and Gus re-entered the kitchen. “Okay, I’ll call you Gus. Whatever. But you can’t go around hunting and cooking rodents in the backyard. Your mother is going to have a fit when she sees what you’ve done to her herb garden.”

  “Sorry, Father. I thought she would enjoy someone else making a meal for a change.”

  “Yes, well, your heart was in the right place. I’ll give you that. But maybe stick with eggs next time, okay? Now go take a bath. I’ll clean up.”

  “Thanks, Father.” Gus looked confused.

  Mr. Clark pointed. “Bathroom, Angus. I mean, Gus.”

  Gus saw the door and nodded. “Got it.”

  Mr. Clark turned his attention to the sink. Curled in the basin, hunkered over the squirrels’ entrails, licking his chops, sat the fat orange cat. The animal hissed at him, clamped a kidney between his teeth, and clambered out of the sink. He waddled away leaving pink footprints on the tile floor. Mr. Clark watched Mrs. Clark’s darling swallow the organ whole before cleaning the blood from his face and paws. Mr. Clark ran, retching, to the bathroom.

  Chapter Fourteen: Snowshoes and Sisters

  Angus slogged through the heavy, wet snow. When last he’d been on this hill, he’d been headed in a downward direction. Now that he was bundled in heavy furs and thick snow boots he was fully aware of the steep incline of the hill. It also occurred to him that he wasn’t as fit as he’d thought. He huffed and puffed and took more than one break before he
’d even reached the first switchback. Ivy loped along ahead of him, her nose an inch deep in the snow, oblivious to the grueling mental and physical effort of her two-legged friend.

  She lifted her head, snow thick on her snout, and announced to the air, “I picked up their scent. They should be just around this next bend.”

  When she got no response, she turned her head and saw the furry brown form of Angus, two switchbacks below. She blew the snow from her muzzle with a deep frustrated exhalation. She opened her mouth to bay at him, remembered the proximity of the sloth, and thought better of it. No need to terrify the dumb animals again and cause a stampede even deeper into the forest.

  She trotted down the hill and came upon Angus leaning against a half-dead conifer. “What is taking you so long?” she complained.

  “I’m going as fast as I can,” panted Angus. “My legs are exhausted from slogging through this deep snow.”

  “Well, I’ve got four legs. I should be twice as tired as you.”

  Angus looked at the dire wolf’s feet resting firmly on the snow. His own legs were buried in snow to mid-calf. He remembered the breathless sensation of her knocking him to the ground and sitting on his chest.

  “Ivy, how much do you weigh?”

  She laid her ears flat against the side of her head and growled. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to ask a woman her weight?”

  “I wasn’t asking a woman, I was asking a wolf. And it’s not a personal question. It’s a scientific one. In all the reading you’ve done about pleistocene megafauna, what is the average weight of a dire wolf?”

  Her ears eased forward. “Oh, well that’s different then. If I remember correctly, the average dire wolf weighed anywhere between 110 and 170 pounds. Why do you ask?”

  Angus pointed at the wolf’s feet. Her toes were splayed across the snow. “I weigh less than that, yet I sink into the snow while you barely disturb it. May I see your front paw?”

  Ivy sat in the snow and obligingly raised one foot for Angus’s perusal. He examined the pads of her paw in his mittened hand and spread the toes apart. “Of course! It’s completely obvious. Why didn’t I think of this before?”

  “What’s obvious?” asked Ivy.

  “Your toes spread apart when you walk, creating a larger surface area on the snow. Your weight is spread across a larger area. I weigh less than you, but all my weight is focused into two comparatively smaller spaces. A narrower surface area. If I weigh 80 pounds, each small foot is pushing 40 pounds into the snow. You might weigh 150 pounds, but you have four feet, so that’s 37.5 pounds on each foot.”

  “That’s not that big of a difference,” said Ivy. “Forty versus thirty-eight?”

  “No, it wouldn’t be, except for the surface area. The larger surface area your paws give you means you have more snow supporting your body from below the surface. The extra surface area redistributes the weight coming down on the snow from above. The physical structure of your feet helps you to maximize pounds per square inch. In my boots, all my body weight is distributed over a few inches. Your wolf feet spread that body weight over many more inches.”

  “And?”

  “And I need to build myself some snowshoes,” finished Angus.

  “Angus, we don’t have time for that! The sloths are a few switchbacks away.”

  “Okay, so just a quick fix. I can lash some pine branches to my boots. Won’t take but a few minutes. We’ll make up the time when I can run across the snow the way you do.”

  Angus pulled his trusty screwdriver from his toolbelt and stabbed at several low-hanging boughs until he’d ripped them from their respective trees. He overlapped and wove them through each other to increase their strength and rigidity.

  “What do you think?” he asked, holding up his handiwork for Ivy’s approval.

  “They look good to me.”

  He unwrapped the long leather ties from his boots, wove the straps through the makeshift showshoes, and wrapped the excess around his ankles and up the calves of the boot. The top of the boot flapped open, but the snowshoes stayed fixed to his feet. Angus took a few trial steps on the snow. His feet sank lightly into the powder, but the large pine boughs prevented his feet from being buried deeply.

  “Success!” he announced proudly.

  “Hey! Did you smell that?” asked Ivy.

  Angus’s nostrils flared as he drew in a deep breath. “The only thing I can smell is this coat. It’s a bit rank.”

  “Wait here.”

  Ivy slinked into the forest and Angus was left standing by himself on the narrow trail. With Ivy gone, the forest was still. Angus felt eyes watching him. He turned his head from one side to the other, peering into the dark recesses between the trees. He had an uncanny sensation of fingers creeping along his back, and despite the heavy fur garments a shiver ran through his body. He saw a movement out of the corner of his eye and jerked his head around. Nothing was there. He walked a few steps back down the trail.

  “It’s nothing. Nothing,” he assured himself and turned around.

  A soft, hazy morning light filtered through the trees. The air was brisk on his cheeks. The forest felt inhospitable, abandoned, a place to be avoided. He wished Ivy would hurry back. With a thump, snow cascaded off a cluster of salal. Angus glimpsed a dark, crouched form. He didn’t wait for the animal to attack. He ran.

  “Gus, Gus, Gussseeee! Where are you going?” called Bonnie’s voice.

  Angus stopped where he stood and let out a loud groan. He slapped his forehead. This was so frustrating! Here was the little kid again, always in the way!

  She ran to him and threw her arms around his legs, nearly toppling him over. He grabbed her shoulders and pushed her away.

  “Why do you keep following me everywhere? I have important things to do and I can’t do them if you’re always around.”

  “I can help you, Gussy!”

  “No, you can’t. You’re just a stupid little kid and you keep getting in my way. Would you get lost!”

  Bonnie’s face turned red. Tears threatened to spill from her eyes. She gritted her teeth, clenched her fists, and tossed her head.

  “You are mean! And you’re not Gussy! You don’t act like him. You don’t even look like him! Not really!” She crossed her arms defiantly across her chest. “Who are you and what have you done with my brother?”

  “Nice. You really handled that well, Angus,” growled the dire wolf as she stepped over a log and trotted to Bonnie’s side.

  “Angus! Is that your name? Where’s Gus?” demanded Bonnie.

  “I’m Gus. Of course I’m Gus. Who else would I be?”

  Bonnie glared at him. “Tell her the truth, Angus,” said Ivy.

  “She won’t understand,” said Angus. “She’s too little. Captain Hank didn’t get it, and he was an adult.”

  “Exactly. Captain Hank was an adult. He’d gotten all serious and lost his imagination, if he ever had one to begin with. Bonnie’s a kid. And not just any kid. She’s a Clark.”

  “True,” Angus considered this for a moment. “Okay, Bonnie. Here goes. You’re right. I’m not your brother. My name is Angus Clark and I’m from another world.”

  Angus prepared himself to explain the entire story, his World Jumper, the accident, that he suspected he’d changed places with Gus, all of it. But the little girl merely blinked at him and asked, “When is Gus coming home?”

  “Soon, really soon,” said Angus. “I hope.”

  “Okay. Neat shoes!” She had already turned her attention to Angus’s feet.

  Angus looked down. “You mean my snowshoes? Don’t you wear them here?”

  Bonnie shook her head. “Can I have a turn?”

  “No. I’m wearing them. Maybe I’ll teach you to make your own.”

  “And those things on your head? And that belt around your stomach?”

  “My safety goggles and toolbelt? Maybe we should start with the snowshoes and see how that goes. But anyway, we have to get the sloths back home.”<
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  “I’ll help!”

  “You’re not coming,” began Angus.

  “You need to go back home,” added Ivy.

  “Nooooo!” Bonnie wailed.

  “Does Mother know you’re up here?” asked Angus.

  Bonnie scowled at him.

  “You’ll get into a lot of trouble if I tell her,” he said.

  “I hope Gus gets back soon. You’re a terrible brother.” She stuck out her tongue.

  He stuck out his tongue at her. The dire wolf raised an eyebrow at him, and he self-consciously pulled the offending body part back into his mouth.

  “You need to get back to the village before the adults miss you. We won’t tell on you if you go right now,” coaxed Ivy.

  Bonnie balled her mittened hands into tiny fists and tightened her lips. “Okay,” she grudgingly agreed.

  “Good girl. Should I go back with you?” asked Ivy.

  Bonnie shook her head. “I know the way. He isn’t the only one who likes to come up here alone.” She darted into the trees like a squirrel and vanished from sight.

  Chapter Fifteen: Herding Sloths

  The dire wolf watched Bonnie scamper into the trees and then turned back to Angus. “Let’s go get those sloths before it gets any later.”

  Angus jogged along behind the dire wolf up the hill. Ivy stopped suddenly.

  “What is it?” whispered Angus.

  “A group of them are around this bend. Can’t you smell them?”

  Angus wiped his runny nose with a mitten. He shook his head. “No.” He sniffed loudly and tried again.

  “Ssssh!” hushed Ivy. “You’ll frighten them again.”

  “They aren’t afraid of humans. They’re domestic sloths, remember? I’m going to walk right over there.”

  Angus hurried around the bend. Several large heads turned toward him. Lazy eyes regarded him briefly before the sloths turned their attention back to foraging for leaves.