Nick Klaus and the Incurable Jumblelium
by Frederic Colier
Book Case Engine, New York
Nick Klaus and the Incurable Jumblelium Copyright © 2014 by Frederic Colier
Library of Congress Number:
ISBN: Softcover 978-1-62848-Pending
ISBN: MOBI 978-1-62848-XXX
ISBN: EPUB 978-1-62848-XXX
Published by Book Case Engine, NY, publishing at SmashWords.
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Cover: 2015 Frederic Colier
File under: Middle Grade Literature/Fiction
To Juliet, Gretchen and Nancy
Also in the Same Collection:
Nick Klaus et le Paysage Désuet (novel, French) Book #1 - 4
Nick Klaus’s Fables (collection of fables) Book #5
Nick Klaus and the Room of Lost Footsteps (novel) Book #6
Nick Klaus and the Incurable Jumblelium (novel) Book #7
Nick Klaus and the Island of Broken Stubborn Dreams (novel) Book #8
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Other Titles by Same Author
About the Author
Connect with Author and Various Links
Note to the Reader,
Nick Klaus asks me to warn you that he will not be held responsible if you feel confused during the reading of this new adventure. In order to prevent such a tragic fate, which would certainly happen if you get trapped in a jumblelium, he recommends that you read some of his previous attempts to escape, at least read “Nick Klaus and the Room of the Lost Footsteps.” This is only way, he tells me, to prevent such a dreadful and unwelcome state from seizing you (or so he gracefully confided in me) . . .
This is just a sample.
Chapter 1
Mr. Crutchfield’s laughs rumbled for a long time down the spiral staircase. It seemed they gushed forth from all sides and preceded him and his four domestics on their way down to the Grand Library of Books United. Trapped inside the potato sack, Nick Klaus fought with all his might. His hands were tied, his mouth taped. Nothing could be done to escape, and yet he kicked and punched the sagging bag. The way the fish-head domestics carried the ten-year-old boy appeared as if Nick was weightless, so strong their arms were. He begged to be released, groaning his desires to return home. No one could understand his moaning. How he wished Dr. Feelgood would fly to his rescue. To no avail, no one had an ear for a kicking boy, and certainly not Mr. Crutchfield who could not contain his jeers, which echoed in the deep winding stairwell.
Step by obedient step, the domestics carried Nick away from everything he thought he knew about his life. Who was he if he was never married and never had a daughter and a third of the age he thought he was? How was this predicament even possible when he could see and touch them with his eyes closed? Who was he at heart if he did not have the parents and the sister he thought he had? Whatever tricks his mind was playing on him were beyond dreadful. He refused to believe that he was simply the hero of a series of books for children. And yet, the more he thought about it, the more the same sad conclusion forced itself upon him. He knew nothing more than what he simply knew about them. His mother was called Pauline. She worked as a humorless librarian in the town library. His father René was a chef, who specialized in English cuisine, and no one took seriously. They both were killed in a car crash when he was ten. And both Charlotte, his sister, who was two years older and had been living abroad for a long time, and he, had been orphans to this day. That’s all he knew about his past, and no matter how hard he tried, he could not remember anything else. No shreds of memory about family dinners, vacations, birthday parties, or years at school. Not even fragments of a home or a family life. Did he have his own bedroom? Nothing at all. Trapped inside the sack, with each passing step, he could feel the same upsetting conclusion crushing him a little more and forcing him into acceptance. He was indeed nothing more than the fictional hero of a series of books.
What about Nicolas Tardieu? How come he could remember being him? What had happened to the twenty-nine year old writer married to Valerie with a baby girl named Isabelle? Nick was filled with bitterness towards Dr. Feelgood for confessing to him that they were nothing but disgruntled characters in a novel, of which Nicolas was the main character, and that once the novel was over, he and the other characters dissolved like lumps of sugar in a hot cup of tea. There never was a real Nicolas Tardieu. Like Valerie and Isabelle, he had evaporated, and only the fictional Nick Klaus remained.
Regardless how crushing this truth was, Nick did not have much time to dwell on this mysterious and devastating situation, nor did he have time to look for satisfying answers. Being passed around like a beach ball made him nauseous. The domestics threw him from one set of hands to the next not caring when they banged his body against the walls. Still, if he was merely the hero of a series of books, how come he existed now? Was he then already living the story of a new novel? And if so what kind of story was it? A story that started where he felt so sick that he could throw up. Was this kidnapping part of this story? He had no clue where they were taking him and why it took so long to get there. Lost and confused he felt.
But the skipping down the stairs ceased suddenly. A spot of light flashed through a tear in the sack, and Nick heard the rattling of keys. He wasted no time in peeping through the hole. Mr. Crutchfield was unlocking one of the secret closets in the Nick Klaus corridor. Of course, he could not tell if it was Mr. Crutchfield’s personal closet or the bookworm closet. But when Mr. Crutchfield threw two old newspapers down, and the little unforgiving gnawing teeth of the bookworms chewed them to shreds, Nick gasped in fear. He was sweating profusely, thinking Mr. Crutchfield was about to feed him to the bookworms, a fate he did not relish.
“Patience dears. Patience,” Mr. Crutchfield told them, rummaging through a pile of folders hanging behind the door. “He’ll be yours soon enough, I promise. For the moment, we still need him. Just a little while longer. Not much. Just a little.” He mumbled while selecting folders and then closed the secret door. Nick took a breath, relieved. If eaten away by worms was going to be his fate, he surely had to escape. And the sooner the better. With two fingers he tore a larger whole in the sack. Upon spotting the fingers sticking out, Mr. Crutchfield immediately grabbed and squeezed them. Oh, the pain Nick felt.
“I will personally chop your fingers off if I see them again,” said the strong old man, bringing his wrinkled stern eyes close to the hole. He searched inside the bag for Nick’s eyes. “And if you squeak or squeal, I will do the same with your tongue. Your fate is sealed, and nothing can change that now. I’ve been waiting for this moment my entire life, an
d there’s nothing you can do to change that either. By the end of the day, our lives will be radically transformed. I will be reintegrated in the Grand Library of Books United, because his Supreme Eminent Editor of the Committee of Revisions, thanks to your presence, will no longer be able to repeal my petition and will be forced to accept the truth. That you, of all people has caused me much harm and suffering, you will have the distasteful pain of tasting your own medicine, when those little teeth chew up everyone ounce of you . . .” He had to stop to catch his breath, his excitement was so strong. “Then unbeknownst to anyone else, except you and Mrs. Fieldcrutch of course, I’ll have access again to my circus, first step before I finally become the new ruler of the Grand Library of Books United. And no one will be able to stop me!”
His menacing tone made Nick shrivel inside the sack, but upon hearing that he was going to meet the Committee of Revisions, something appeared in his mind. Tucked in his jacket was the report that Stefan had typed about his trip in the Room of the Lost Footsteps. If only he could untie his hands and free his mouth to present his case to the committee, perhaps he would regain his freedom and thwart Mr. Crutchfield’s plan. The old man snapped his fingers, and suddenly Nick was back up in the air bouncing inside the