Leven Thumps and the Gateway to Foo

  “Frozen?” Tim asked in disbelief and with a slight smirk.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Mr. Bentwonder said, shaking a finger at Tim. “Trust me, I understand science. I could have taught any number of subjects.”

  “I’m sure you could have.”

  “It seemed as though the room had turned to ice, but I’m certain it was some sort of illusion. That witch,” he growled. “Regardless, when I awoke from her trance, my tie had been cut in half, the principal was locked in a hall closet, and that brat was nowhere to be seen.”

  “Brat?” Tim asked. “And no one went after her?”

  “Why should we?”

  “Don’t you have a responsibility to—?”

  “I don’t like your tone,” Mr. Bentwonder said. “Who did you say you were, anyway?”

  “I’m Winter’s neighbor.”

  “Well, then, what business is this of yours?” Mr. Bentwonder asked testily.

  “Don’t you think—?”

  “No, I don’t think,” Mr. Bentwonder interrupted. “And I will ask you to leave before I am compelled to use force.”

  “No need for that,” Tim said, standing. “Thanks for your time.”

  Mr. Bentwonder blew his nose in response.

  Tim Tuttle stepped into the hall and walked out the front door of the school. Nothing seemed to make sense.

  “A frozen classroom,” he said to himself. “How is it possible for a teacher to be hypnotized by a thirteen-year-old girl?”

  Tim Tuttle pulled his baseball hat from his back pocket and put it on. He was more determined than ever to find Winter. He was also more curious than ever to find out exactly what had happened.

  He stepped off the curb and headed to the Frore home.

  Chapter Ten

  Royal Flush

  “Wake up, Winter,” Geth whispered. “Wake up.”

  Winter could faintly hear his voice, but her head felt like a thick wad of throbbing clay.

  “Are you okay?” Geth whispered. “You must wake up.”

  Winter had no idea where she was or if she would ever be able to open her eyes again. She was lying on something cold, and her hands were tied behind her and bound tightly to her body. A heavy shroud covered her from head to foot, and she was completely unable to move.

  She moaned, her head full of cold, empty thoughts.

  “Good girl,” Geth said kindly. “Push the blackness out of your mind.”

  “But I can’t open my eyes,” Winter managed to mumble.

  Geth smiled. “That’s all right, there’s nothing to see. Just relax.”

  “Where are we?” she groaned, licking at her dry lips.

  “I’m not certain,” Geth replied. “Something bit you, and Jamoon transported you here on the back of a roven.”

  Winter struggled against her bonds. “My wrists hurt,” she complained.

  “Of course,” Geth said, patting her on the shoulder as she lay there. “They don’t want you touching anything.”

  “Why don’t they want me touching things?” Winter asked. “I don’t need to touch things to freeze them,” she added. “I only need to touch things to—”

  It suddenly made sense—the cold against her back, her trapped and covered hands. Winter used everything inside of herself to force open her eyes.

  She gasped.

  She could barely see out of the slits in the mask, but she could tell that the entire room was solid ice and smaller than her height in all directions. The low ceiling was frozen, and crystals of ice drifted down from above, illuminated by a pulsating white light. Winter rolled her head from side to side. There were no windows or doors. The walls were solid sheets of ice, glistening in the dull light the crystals on the ceiling provided. In the corner was what looked to be a block of ice about the size of a bucket. There was a shallow basin on the top of the block and a small hole in the center of the basin.

  “Sorry, but that’s the rest room,” Geth blushed.

  “I don’t know what good it will do me. With my hands bound I can’t use it anyway,” Winter moaned. “How long till they take us out of here?”

  “Well . . .” Geth cleared his wood hole. “They bring people here for one reason only. This place was Sabine’s creation. He knew he couldn’t kill, so he built this sadistic waiting room. He would keep his enemies here until they were weak enough for him to steal their souls and put them into an endless dark dream, or perhaps cram them into a fantrum seed.”

  “This is where he kept you?” Winter asked, feeling herself come awake even more.

  “Yes,” Geth answered. “It was three months before I was weak enough for him to extract my soul. You, however, are different.” Geth closed his eyes as if overcome by thought.

  “I understand. It’s not a great feeling realizing the whole of Foo knows we’re expendable,” Winter lamented. “So a Lore Coil gave us away?”

  “Yes, and it will probably drift back and forth for years, weakening with each pass. Some coils take hundreds of years to vanish completely. Even now, the air is filled with bits and pieces of conversations and events that have long since expired. Of course, most can’t hear anything carried by the Lore Coil after a second or third pass. The Sochemists of Morfit can, but even they fight over what they think they’ve heard. There appears, however, to be no argument about our mortality.”

  “What about Lev?” Winter said quietly.

  “Fate will tend him as it will us,” Geth whispered. “Hopefully he is well and headed for the turrets.”

  “So what’ll we do?” Winter asked. “I can’t even stretch out in here.”

  “Well, I hate to be the one to suggest it because then I’ve no one to blame but myself. But I could always find out where that toilet leads.”

  Winter turned her head as far as she could and looked toward the frozen stump.

  “I would never have suggested that,” she insisted, trying to smile.

  “Fate’s not always pretty,” Geth sighed. “I’ll get out and restore myself in the fire of the turrets. Then I can free you and alleviate your condition.”

  “My condition?” Winter tried to smile. “Oh, yeah, dying.”

  “Death is just a condition fate is forced to use at times,” Geth said seriously.

  “You’re making me feel a lot better,” Winter lied.

  “Sorry,” Geth said as nicely as he could. “You need to stay alive. Save your energy, because I don’t remember this place serving meals.”

  “I’m already thirsty,” Winter complained.

  “Think of the bright side,” Geth smiled. “There’ll be less reason for you to use the facilities.” And with that Geth took off running toward the block of ice in the corner. He flew across the floor, leaped into the air, and dove into the small hole, using the facilities in his own special way.

  ii

  Major amusement parks would do well to study the pipes and drainage system of the caves that Geth was traveling down. It would make quite a ride—the Toilet of Terror. He first entered a long, steep pipe where he gained terrific speed before hurtling headlong into a succession of multiple bends and wickedly sharp turns that would have left a normal person breathless. After what seemed like hours, Geth shot out of a hole in the mountainside and into the Sun River. The river pulled Geth along for about a mile before he was able to work his way over to the bank and crawl out onto dry land.

  Geth struggled for a time to catch his breath. Finally he stood and took a look around, surprised at how confused he was. He recognized the Sun River, but he wasn’t sure at which point he had ended up. More of a concern, however, was that he had absolutely no idea where he had just come from. He would never be able to backtrack to find Winter. Geth knew Foo pretty well. He knew the places of breathtaking beauty and the places best avoided for fear of capture or danger. But he had no idea of the location of Sabine’s ice caves. When he had first been captured and taken there, he had been in a drugged state. And when he had arrived with Winter a few hours ago, h
e had been tucked in the hem of her sleeve and so had seen nothing. Now, thanks to his wild ride through the pipes, Geth couldn’t even begin to guess what direction he had just come from.

  “Perfect,” Geth said to himself. “Nothing like a challenge.”

  Geth dove back into the Sun River and swam quickly downstream. He paddled evenly and calmly. Stroke by stroke he raced through the water toward the Lime Sea, the strong current carrying him along at great speed.

  By early afternoon, Geth was in the Lime Sea, paddling his way to shore. He hid in the water underneath the forest docks, waiting for someone or something traveling on through the Swollen Forest. Large, bloated mons swam in the water around him. Mons were disgustingly fat, fishlike creatures with large, wrinkled, pruny eyes and cellulite-coated bodies. They populated the Lime Sea and were considered a delicacy by the Waves of the Lime Sea. The mons would eat algae and weeds until they were so big they would explode; the Waves would then harvest and enjoy the carnage left behind. Everyone else in Foo found their remains to be too fatty, too tough, and too much like blown-up fish remnants to be at all appetizing. The mons sniffed at Geth, realized he was tasteless, and swam away.

  Geth bobbed up and down, surprised at the level of concern he was feeling. After all, he was a lithen of the highest order, and it was completely out of character for him to be worried about anything.

  His worry wasn’t for Winter and her suffering and possible starvation, even though it didn’t exactly bring him joy to think of her weakening in that coffin of ice.

  He wasn’t worried about Leven, either, even though the boy was a crucial player in what would happen in the battle to preserve Foo and completely restore the dreams of mankind.

  He wasn’t even worried about Clover. The little sycophant was amazingly resourceful and could no doubt take care of himself.

  No, Geth’s worry was for himself. As neat and compact and woody as a toothpick is, one’s soul and heart can give it life for only so long. Geth had already beaten the odds by surviving the blades that had chewed him up as a chunk of tree. He had tempted fate by slipping from Foo and back. He suspected that his small body simply couldn’t last too much longer, and Geth was beginning to experience worry—something no lithen had ever done. Geth suspected that if he were not restored to his former self within a couple of days, his heart would give out, and he would become nothing but a useless sliver of wood, good only for picking teeth and spearing cocktail weenies.

  It was not a pleasant prospect.

  Geth reached down and rubbed his left foot. Already he could feel the wood at his southernmost tip hardening.

  “Interesting,” he said, continually in awe of fate’s working.

  From beneath the docks he spotted a band of palehi, their faces reflecting the trauma of the many frightening things they had seen. The palehi were lean and short, with long, white hair pulled back in leather bands. They were usually shirtless, their arms marked in red stripes, each stripe representing a time they had successfully made it through the Swollen Forest. The palehi wore loose skirts that allowed their legs full range of motion, and their feet were wrapped with gunt-lined leather that was tied tightly at their ankles. They lived in the edges of the forest, and perpetual fear had bleached their skin a pale white.

  Like the lithens, the palehi had been in Foo since the creation. But unlike the lithens, the palehi had never become a positive force in Foo. Following the wars, the palehi resisted ever taking sides again. However, for a price, the timid beings would escort anything that wished to travel through the Swollen Forest. They didn’t guarantee they could safely get you where you were going, but they were as effective a way through as any.

  Geth watched as a group of palehi tentatively circled a tall nit who was looking to traverse the forest. The nit had a fat sycophant on his right shoulder and was counting the red stripes on the arms of the palehi.

  “You get me through the forest, and I’ll make it worth your while, yes indeed, yes indeed. I’m very important, mind you,” the nit said.

  “I’m sure you are,” one of the palehi responded. “Now, keep up and we should have no problem. Your name?”

  “I like the name Francis, but unfortunately mine’s Albert. Albert Welch,” the nit replied. “I hold a position of great importance in Niteon.”

  The palehi looked unimpressed. One even smirked.

  “I’m Simon,” the lead palehi said to Albert. “Your sycophant’s name?”

  “Delph,” Albert replied.

  “We prefer not to see him,” Simon said. “Sycophants only complicate things.”

  “Well,” Delphinium huffed, “I know when I’m not wanted.”

  “That would be now,” Simon said. “The last thing we need is some sycophant making things messier. If we don’t see you, you can’t interfere.”

  Delphinium glared and then disappeared.

  Their white faces showing only fear, the palehi formed a circle around Albert. The tall nit straightened the felt hat on his head and buttoned his vest.

  “Run quickly,” Simon said to Albert. “We’ll keep you circled.”

  Geth climbed out from beneath the docks as Simon was talking and ran as fast as his small legs would carry him. He scrambled onto the road, breathing hard in a dash to reach them. The palehi were beginning to move into the forest, and Geth’s short legs made it almost impossible for him to catch up. Fortunately, impossible was a concept Geth had some trouble grasping. Geth lunged forward and snagged the right cuff of Albert’s pants. He pulled himself up over the hem and into the cuff and settled in as Albert and the circle of palehi took off running into the forest.

  Chapter Eleven

  Here and Foul

  Clover hated the tharms. He had once had a run-in with them, when he was in his early fifties. It had been a dark night, and they had ambushed him, stealing him from off Antsel’s shoulder and binding him in a silver dream sack that he couldn’t work his way out of. Eventually Antsel had ransomed his release, and Clover had been set loose with a new love of freedom and a new dislike for the three-armed, foul-smelling, cork-eared miscreants.

  Clover had hoped that single incident would be his one and only, but his hopes had now been dashed. He had just been sitting there, minding his own business, when suddenly and without warning he had been netted off Leven’s head and whisked away with such speed that there was no way Leven could have known what had happened. And even though Clover was bound in a dream sack and hidden deep within a tharm’s tunnel, he didn’t fear the creatures or the place where they held him. What he feared was Leven thinking he had abandoned him.

  Sycophants don’t do well with feelings of having let their burns down.

  The tunnel was dank, and the only light came from two burning torches, which were spaced about twenty feet from each other and stapled to the tunnel walls with thick, yellow rib bones of rovens. The torches illuminated a part of the tunnel that had been dug out to create a sort of room. That cavern had thirty or so silvery bags hanging from roots sticking down through the ceiling. All the bags hung still at the moment except for one that was rocking and twisting.

  “Hello!” Clover hollered out from the bag. “Hello?” He knew from his previous experience that he was probably being held captive with other sycophants.

  “No one’s going to answer you,” a voice yelled back.

  “Good to know,” Clover replied. “Where are we?”

  “Who knows?” the voice answered. “Dirty tharms. They don’t even give you a chance—snatching you when your back’s turned.”

  “So where’s your burn?” Clover asked.

  “I’ve no idea,” the voice said, breaking up a bit. “We had just come out of the Swollen Forest alive and were celebrating our success when I was snatched from off my burn’s head. Poor Steven. I don’t know what he’ll do without me.”

  “They’ll probably bury your burn,” another sycophant said. “They’ve taken to burying nits these days.”

  Clover began to thr
ash around in his bag. If Leven was buried, the boy would suffocate. Clover had no time to hang around.

  “I have to get out of here,” Clover cried.

  “How?” a few sycophants answered back, sounding confused.

  “There has to be a way,” Clover said, racking his brain.

  All the other sycophants were dumbfounded. Sycophants did as their burns required. They were carefree, completely motivated by someone other than themselves telling them how to live their lives. For generations, sycophants had been snatched by the tharms and held captive until someone ransomed them. That was just how things were. “But—” one tried to argue.

  “Stay if you want,” Clover said. “But I’m in the mood for helping fate. Does anyone here have any matches?”

  “This cannot be good,” a high-pitched sycophant voice wailed.

  “Matches or an amber stick,” Clover clarified.

  There was no answer, only the sound of some whimpering from the other bags.

  “Fine,” Clover shrugged.

  He fished around in his void until he found a tin of I-Chews. He rubbed his finger over the wrapper, and the words on the label glowed. He read it out loud: “One piece will gently inflate your ego. Two pieces will cause excessive swelling. Three pieces or more, and you’re asking for trouble.”

  Clover pried the lid off and poured every last piece into his mouth. The candy tasted like lint, and he could hardly chew, there were so many pieces. But as he chomped on it, the candy gradually liquefied and ran down his throat like syrup. He coughed and sputtered as he continued to chew.

  “What are you doing?” a thin-voiced sycophant asked. “Are you all right?”

  “I—” Clover would have answered, but he suddenly felt too self-important to address such common sycophants. His head began to swell, and the swelling was accompanied by a rapturous feeling of superiority that expanded as Clover’s perfect body and ego continued to grow.

  Clover looked at his arms as they rapidly enlarged. He smiled. They were, after all, such nice arms. The candy had him thinking of no one but himself.