The Journal of Curious Letters Read online

  From top to bottom, side to side, the room was a complete sea of yellow.

  Tapestries of yellow people on yellow horses in fields of yellow daisies. Yellow padded chairs on yellow rugs on top of yellow carpets. The walls, the couches, the paintings, the pillows, the servants’ clothing, the lamps, the books—even the wood and bricks of the fireplace had been painted yellow. It made Frazier sick to his stomach, and reminded him once again that the woman he’d chosen to follow was completely insane.

  But Frazier knew one day Jane would snap, and someone would need to replace her. That’s where I come in, he thought. If I can only survive this day.

  A buzzing sound from above made him look up to see two large insects flying down toward him.

  Snooper bugs, he thought. Could she be any more paranoid?

  The enormous winged creatures flew around him in a tight circle, their cellophane wings flapping in a blur, their elongated beaks snipping at his clothes and poking at his skin. Frazier winced, but kept still and silent, knowing the vicious things could get quite nasty if you didn’t submit completely. Finally, after inflicting dozens of tiny wounds all over his body, the two Snoopers flew back to their nests. They didn’t need to communicate anything further to Jane—if Frazier had been holding any poisons or weapons, he’d be dead.

  “Come forward,” a gruff voice said from the side. Frazier looked over to see a grotesquely fat man who looked like a hideous cross between a dwarf and a troll, hovering ten feet in the air, his plump legs dangling. His head, face, and chest were covered in dark, greasy hair, and he wore nothing but a wide skirt around his middle, proudly displaying his disgustingly bloated skin. “The Mistress will see you now.” He held out a flabby arm, gesturing deep into the throne room. “Hurry. She is a busy woman.”

  Frazier shuddered and followed the guard’s instructions, staring straight ahead. He didn’t stop walking until he reached the Kneeling Pillow of Mistress Jane, where he did as countless others had done before him, dropping to his knees and kissing the ground before him. Then, daring to show some boldness, he leaned back on his legs and looked up at the preposterous throne.

  It was black.

  Mistress Jane had never explained to anyone why her throne was made from completely nondescript, heavy, black iron, nor had anyone ever dared ask. But Frazier thought it must be a symbol that her seat of power was so important, she wanted it to stand out among the world of yellow.

  She sat on her black throne, dressed from head to toe in the color she so dearly loved. She wore a hat embroidered with lace and daffodils that stretched a foot above her bald head. Her sparkling gown fit her body tightly, covering every inch from the middle of her neck to her shiny yellow heels. Horn-rimmed glasses sat atop her nose, her emerald eyes peering through like focused lasers.

  Everything about this woman is just . . . weird, Frazier thought as he waited for her to say something.

  “I don’t know why we rescued you,” Mistress Jane said, her voice taut with barely veiled anger. “We could just as easily have destroyed the complex of that buffoon Master George while you still sat inside, bawling your eyes out.”

  “Yes, Mistress Jane,” Frazier replied. He knew better than to say anything else—yet.

  “We finally had a hope of knowing George’s plan once and for all—and you threw it down the drain in exchange for a little fun with your Chu Industries toy and a car. You better hope the attack on George takes care of any loose ends. SPEAK!” She belted this last word, causing several nearby servants to gasp.

  Frazier stumbled on his words. “Mistress Jane . . . I

  n-never intended to k-kill them. I only meant to scare them enough to t-talk. I failed, and I’m sorry.”

  Jane stood up, her reddening face all the fiercer against the yellow background of her hat and dress. “They did not die, you blubbering sack of drool!”

  Frazier couldn’t hide his shock at hearing this. How in the world did they escape before the car . . .

  He knew that now was not the time to wonder, now was the time for apologies and groveling. “I am very sorry, Mistress Jane.”

  “Listen to me well, Frazier Gunn,” Jane said as she sat back down on her throne. “And let my servants put this on record. I give you one spoken sentence—one sentence only—to convince me why I should not send you to your death at the hands of the scallywag beasts. And not the nice ones that only take a week to digest their food.”

  Frazier closed his eyes, throwing all of his mental powers into quashing the rising panic and constructing a single sentence that could save his life. He had nothing. Nothing! But then a single word popped into his head, giving him an idea. It was desperate, but his only shot. Quickly, in his mind, he visualized each word of a sentence one by one, going over them several times. Finally, he opened his eyes and spoke.

  “Master George has a spy in your presence, and I know who it is.”

  Jane’s eyes screwed up into tight wrinkles, her brow creased. She folded her arms, studying Frazier for a long moment. “Nitwit!” she suddenly screamed, causing even more servants to gasp.

  Frazier jumped, his heart sinking to the floor. “But—”

  Before he could utter another word, a young girl dressed entirely in yellow zoomed through the air from the back of the room, stopping to hover directly in front of Frazier, facing Jane. No one had figured out how Jane used the mutated Chi’karda to enable flight, but seeing people flying always gave Frazier the creeps. It seemed so . . . unnatural.

  “Yes, Mistress?” a high-pitched voice asked.

  “Fetch me a banana sandwich.” Jane leaned to the side, peering down at Frazier. “We have much to discuss, and I’m hungry. And make it quick!” She clapped her hands, a booming echo that shook the walls.

  As the little servant flew off to obey Jane’s orders, Frazier tried to regain his breath after that frantic moment when he’d thought for sure he’d be killed, all the while in disbelief that Jane could stoop so low as to rename a child Nitwit. Of course, the last one had been named Nincompoop, but

  had been disposed of once Jane got tired of yelling “Nincompoop!” every time she wanted something.

  “Frazier!” Jane snapped.

  “Y-y-yes, Mistress?” he stammered.

  “Start talking.”

  Frazier told her about Annika.

  ~

  It truly did happen in the blink of an eye, a quick tingle shooting down Tick’s spine.

  The instant Master George pushed the button on top of the Barrier Wand, the room of the Realitant headquarters vanished, replaced by thousands of massive trees covered in moss. Tick and the other recruits, along with Mothball, stood in a dark forest, hazy sunlight barely breaking through the thick canopy of branches to make small patches of gold on the earthy floor. The haunted sounds of exotic birds and insects filled the creepy woods, smells of roots and rotting leaves wafting through the air. Tick had the uneasy feeling that the forest wanted to eat him alive.

  “Where are we?” Paul asked, though he must’ve known the answer.

  “In the Thirteenth, we are. Deep in the Forest of Plague,” Mothball whispered.

  “Forest of Plague?” Sofia asked with a snort. “Lovely.”

  “A great battle was fought ’ere,” Mothball said, slowly turning as she scanned the ancient trees, most of which were thick enough to make an entire house. Gnarled, twisted branches reached out as if trying to escape their masters. “Many moons ago, it was. Thousands died, their rottin’ bodies creating a plague that was downright nasty. So I’ve ’eard, anyway. Must be true, seeing as there’s quite a bit of Chi’karda here. Come on, follow me.”

  “Wait,” Sato said, trying to sound stern but coming across as a grumpy jerk. “Tell us the plan before we take a step.”

  Tick rolled his eyes, but quickly so Sato couldn’t see him do it. Things are scary enough, he thought. Why does this guy have to make it worse?

  “The plan’s quite simple, really,” Mothball said, not acting bothered a
t all. “Right over yonder”—she pointed toward an ivy-covered copse of pine trees—“there’s some right dandy Windbikes that we can take to meet Master George’s spy, Annika. She’s been settin’ things up for months to get close to the Barrier Wand. We meet Annika, we get the Wand, we come back ’ere in thirty hours, and home we go.”

  “Sounds too easy,” Sato said with a comical sneer.

  “Sure it is, old chap, sure it is.” Mothball turned and walked toward the pine trees. “Got a better idea, let me know. But best be right quick about it.”

  As Tick and the others followed their eight-foot-tall guide, Sato said from behind, “How do we know we can trust this spy? Maybe she works for Mistress Jane.”

  “Find out soon enough, we will,” Mothball replied, not slowing at all.

  “Quit your whining and come on,” Sofia snapped.

  Tick cringed, wishing his friend would ease up on the poor kid. Tick didn’t like him either, but Sofia seemed way too harsh—who knew what Sato might do to retaliate.

  Begrudgingly, Sato finally started walking. The sounds of footfalls crunching the thick undergrowth of the forest suddenly filled the air, echoing off the canopy of interwoven tree limbs.

  Tick moved to catch up with Mothball, practically running to keep up with her pace. “I have a question.”

  “Go on and ask it, then.” Mothball pushed an enormous branch out of the way that everyone else simply walked under.

  “The alternate versions of ourselves in other worlds—does that mean there is one of me in every Reality?”

  “That’s usually the case, it is. We call ’em Alterants. Strange how all that works—even though the Realities can grow in vastly different ways from each other, there seems to be a definite pattern when it comes to the people.”

  “What do you mean?” Tick asked, stooping to avoid a huge chunk of moss that drooped over a thick limb like a giant beard.

  “Even though a Reality may have different governments and cultures and climates and all that from another Reality, the general pedigree of people remains quite similar—downright spooky, it is.” A huge bird cawed from overhead, followed by the squeal of a small animal.

  “So in your Reality—the . . .”

  “The Fifth, it is.”

  “Yeah, the Fifth. There’s a really tall version of me there? My Alterant? And he’s alive right now, with parents named Edgar and Lorena?”

  “Chances are ya be right. Course, I’ve never met ’em, and never tried. Dangerous stuff, messin’ with Alterants.”

  Sofia and Paul had been following closely and listening to every word while Sato hung back, only a couple of steps behind them. Though he acted indifferent to the conversation, Tick had a feeling Sato was intently paying attention.

  “Why is it dangerous to mess with Alterants?” Sofia asked.

  “Since I had dealings with Tick in Reality Prime,” Mothball said, pausing a second to reassess her bearings. She changed directions slightly and headed down a shallow ravine scattered with boulders among the trees. “I didn’t want to meet his Alterant in any of the other Realities. Not only could it make me go mad, it could lead to the little sir meetin’ his taller self in my Reality. Disaster, that.”

  “Why?” Paul asked.

  “If two Alterants meet and truly recognize each other for what and who they are, well, then only one of the poor blokes can survive. Still trying to figure out the why and how, we are, but one of them ceases to exist. Sometimes that causes a nasty chain reaction that can rattle the Realities to their bones. Bet yer best buttons some of the worst earthquakes and such you’ve had were because of Alterants seein’ each other. Master George and the Realitants have worked their buns off to avoid such meetings, but Mistress Jane likes to bring Alterants together. She thinks it’s funny. Mad, she is. Crazy as a brain-dead Bugaboo soldier.”

  That was the second time Tick had heard Mothball refer to Bugaboo soldiers, but he was too busy thinking about Alterants to ask any more questions.

  “Whoa, man,” Paul said. “This is some downright freaky stuff. You’re telling me there’s all these Pauls running around the universe? I better be a big-time surfer in one of them. And a world-class pianist in another.”

  “Face it,” Sofia said with a smirk. “You’re a no-talent bum in all of them, just like you are here. Or, there. Or, whatever.”

  Paul stuck out his tongue. “Sis, you’re hilarious.”

  “Call me ‘sis’ again,” Sofia challenged, raising her fist.

  “Sis.”

  Sofia pulled back and punched Paul solidly on his upper arm with a loud thump.

  “Ow!” he yelled, rubbing the spot. “That’s no fair. I can’t punch a girl back.”

  Tick laughed, and Mothball surprised everyone when she did, too.

  “Glad my pain can give everyone a nice chuckle,” Paul said, still wincing. “Tick, a word of advice. Don’t mess with Italians.”

  “I learned that just from her e-mails. Whatever you do, don’t rip on her spaghetti.”

  “Tick,” Sofia said. “I like you. You’re smart . . . for an American.”

  Sato completely ignored all of them, never breaking his stoic expression.

  Before anyone could throw out another sarcastic remark, Mothball stopped next to a big pile of fallen branches and twigs. She turned toward the messy heap and took a deep breath. “’Ere we are.” She bent over and yanked on a large branch, pulling it off the stack. “A little ’elp would be nice.”

  Tick grabbed a branch and everyone joined in, even Sato, who was mumbling something Tick couldn’t understand.

  Tick saw a glimmer of metal when he pulled off a prickly branch, his curiosity increasing his pace. Soon, they’d cleared the entire pile, and all of them stared at what they’d uncovered.

  Three sleek and shiny motorcycles were lined up in a row, silver with sparkly metallic red paint. They were the coolest things Tick had ever seen, but there was one thing about them that seemed a little odd.

  None of them had wheels.

  Chapter

  46

  ~

  Chi’karda Drive

  They’re called Windbikes,” Mothball said, gesturing with a wide sweep of her arm. “Quite fun, they are.” Everything about the strange vehicles looked exactly like a normal bullet bike you’d see zooming down the freeway: a small windshield, silvery handlebars, shiny body with a big black leather seat. But the machine ended in a flat bottom instead of two round wheels.

  “I hate to break it to you,” Paul said, “but somebody, uh, stole the tires.”

  Mothball laughed, a booming roar that bounced off the overhanging branches. “You’re a funny little man, you are, Paul.”

  “Are you telling us these things . . . fly?” Sofia asked.

  “Well, I’d hope so, what with them not having wheels and all. Come on,” she said while pulling the bike on the end away from the rest, pushing it across the ground. “There’s three. One for me, and two for you kiddies to share. Methinks you’ll be better off if ya go in pairs.”

  “Not me,” Sato said. “I go alone.”

  “You’ll go in a pair,” Mothball said. “Or you’ll sit ’ere and hug this tree all day.” She stared down at Sato, daring him to argue. He said nothing in reply.

  It was the first time Tick had seen Mothball use her size to intimidate someone. I have a feeling this lady is a lot tougher than she acts.

  “Sweet biscuits!” Paul said as he grabbed hold of the next Windbike and dragged it a few feet away. “You’re serious? This thing really flies? In the air?”

  “Where else would it fly, Einstein?” Sofia said. “Underground?”

  “You got me there, Miss Italy,” Paul said, seeming to have grown accustomed to Sofia’s smart mouth. “How does it work?”

  Mothball sat down on her bike, her body taking up the entire seat that was meant for two. “You push this ’ere button, which turns it on, like so.” She pressed a red button on the small dashboard under the handlebar
s. The Windbike came to life, humming like a big computer and not like a normal motorcycle at all. “Doesn’t use gasoline. Takes hydrogen right out of the moisture in the air, it does, burns it right nicely. Come on, get on, now!”

  “Who’s going with who?” Tick asked.

  “I’ll go with you or Paul,” Sofia said. “But not him.” She nodded toward Sato, who scowled back at her.

  “I don’t want to go with you, either.”

  “Alrighty then,” Paul said, clapping his hands. “Looks like it’s me and Sofia on this one, Tick and Sato on that one.” He pointed to the next bike in line.

  Tick wanted to argue, but he didn’t really want Sato any angrier than he already was. He looked to Sofia for help, but she only shrugged, not bothering to hide the smirk on her face. “Uh, great, okay.”

  Paul moved toward his bike and sat down right behind the handlebars, but Sofia would have none of it.

  “I’m driving, tough guy,” she said, pushing him backward as she squirmed her way in front of him.

  Paul held his hands up in surrender as he scooted to the rear of the big seat. “You win, Miss Italy, you win.” He looked over at Tick and mouthed the words, “Help me.”

  Sato pulled the last Windbike upright and pushed the button to turn it on as he swung his leg over and sat down in the driver’s position. “Get on,” he said, not bothering to look at Tick.

  Tick felt like he’d rather pound his head against the closest tree than get on the back of the humming machine. He hated how the mean kid from Japan was ruining everything.

  Mothball must have noticed Tick’s hesitation. “Come, now. Time’s a wastin’, it is.”

  “Yeah, sorry.” Tick sighed as he sat behind Sato. The bottom edge of the Windbike had a railing with sticky pads for his feet. “Is this another invention from the Fourth Reality? Wait, let me guess—Chu Industries?”

  “Nailed that one, you did,” Mothball answered. “Chu rules a monopoly in the Fourth, he does—practically owns everything. Smuggled these bikes in a few months ago, we did, figuring they’d do right nicely for our little mission.”