On the way Oliver had answered all my questions, explaining how on the morning he’d been feeding the pegasi carrots, he was actually spying on Medusa’s house to figure out a way in to find the golden bridles . . . telling me how he knew things might go badly for us in the genie’s cave, and he wanted to be prepared for it. I was shocked: He’d planned so much ahead, he’d risked his life for us, it was more than I ever could have hoped for, even from him. Not to mention how terrifying it would have been to be in Medusa’s house. He said she was out grocery shopping when he did it, but even that sounds scary beyond words.
“I’ve already lost my parents,” he said with his chin on my shoulder, so that I could hear him over the soft whooshing of the air around us. “I’m not going to lose yours.”
* * *
The ground loomed up at us and we came in for a soft landing in a small clearing surrounded by thick trees. We all slid off our mounts and shook out our legs, regaining our footing as Oliver slipped the bridles off of the pegasi and rubbed their snouts. “You’re free, guys,” he said. “Go find your herd.”
They snuffed and snorted and shook out their tangly manes, then turned away from us, launching into the sky the same way they had in Luck City—trotting a few steps on the ground before trotting on air and lifting up, up, and away.
“Where will the pegses go?” Sam asked, standing against Millie’s legs.
“Probably to the Sierra Madres,” Dad said, “where they’re supposed to be.”
Everyone gazed at Oliver then. Mom patted at her eyes with her fingertips, as if to push back tears. She kept clasping her hands together like she was trying not to reach out and grab him and hug him into oblivion. We all looked around at each other. I guess there were no words to thank him enough for what he’d done, so none were said.
* * *
Anyway, there we were, standing in a park in Los Angeles. We could hardly believe we’d come so far. The air smelled wet and salty and thick, and a heavy, vibrating buzz came from deep in the trees: the deafening sounds of crickets and cicadas and tree frogs. There had to be millions of them. The shadows of the trees loomed large all around us.
Then the clouds above parted and the moon suddenly flooded our surroundings with light. We were all breathless to realize there were huge, beautiful mansions rising out of the thick woods of the park. They all looked to be abandoned.
“Old LA,” Dad said. It took us a few moments to take it all in.
“Now what?” Millie finally asked. “What was that building you saw at the top of the hill?”
Dad suddenly beamed. “Now, we climb,” he said, mysteriously excited.
He started picking a path up the mountain. Vines reached across our path and had to be ducked under or climbed over, and the ground was covered in slippery moss, full of puddles and roots. Occasionally, when the breeze came in the right direction, I thought I could smell the ocean. I’d never gotten such a strong feeling of nature being alive. Even the leaves seemed to turn their faces up to the moonlight.
“When people were moving west,” Dad said, “and LA was a growing city with all sorts of promise, the neighborhood around Griffith Park was one of the prime pieces of real estate, very popular with celebrities. Giants built the houses, charging steep prices. There used to be soccer games and hiking trails and picnics all over the area. But as the forest took over again, the beasts—sasquatches especially—would rob the houses, attack people, or force them out so they could use the mansions as dens to raise their young. People began to head back east in droves. Some of the braver types lingered, and there’s still a fairly busy port for sailors to reload on food and supplies. But most people, if they aren’t in the shipping business, are long gone—and the angels have taken advantage of the emptiness to move in. The angels, and also someone you’ve heard of, who hired the giants to help him build the observatory at the top of this mountain back in the eighties.”
“Prospero,” Mom breathed in wonder. I knew immediately who she was talking about—the famous astronomer, the one Dad went to college with. The one he’d made us all watch on 60 Minutes.
Dad nodded. “I knew he’d built an observatory out here. I never dreamed we’d actually get to visit it. He’s much smarter than I am, and knows just about everything. He’ll have some ideas on getting to the edge of the earth.”
The moon continued to illuminate our slow trek upward: woods, bungalows, and mansions strangled by thorns, all dark except for the occasional glow behind one of the windows, bright white, so luminous we couldn’t make out the shape of whatever it was that was glowing. “What’s in those houses?” Sam asked. He was holding my hand and had insisted on walking for a while.
“Those”—Dad grinned at us over his shoulder—“are the angels. Hiding out from the gods.”
Millie and I gasped. Because of their brightness, angels can’t be captured on film, though I have seen drawings of some. Though otherwise they look human, they are luminous and filmy . . . and often extremely attractive. I strained to catch a glimpse of one as we passed another cluster of houses, without any luck. Sam kept getting his shoes sucked off in the mud, so I finally lifted him up and piggybacked him.
“Ew.” Millie pulled at a strand of moss that had just slapped across her face. Just then something blindingly bright crossed our path, speeding past us and disappearing back into the trees. Again, I’d missed my chance to get a closer look.
“I can’t wait to meet ours!” Sam said. I couldn’t agree more.
My thighs felt like they were on fire by the time we reached the top of the mountain and the building we’d seen from the air. We knew we’d arrived when we reached a rusted metal fence with a sign hanging from one of the fence posts that said WELCOME TO GRIFFITH PARK OBSERVATORY!
The sight of it knocked the wind right out of our sails. The gate had a lock, but it was rusted and flapping open in the breeze, and the sign was rotting away.
“It’s deserted,” Millie groaned.
Dad was clearly troubled. His bright look disappeared and his whole body deflated. He held the gate open for us and we walked up to the building itself—which was made of yellowing white stone, with a large, rusting metal door under a big central dome. Mom knocked loudly, and we waited. She knocked again.
We must have stood there for five minutes or more. Mom tried the handle, but it didn’t budge. We all just looked at each other.
Where would we eat? Would it be safe to sleep in one of the abandoned mansions? How far was it to the docks? All of that was running through my mind when there was a subtle shift in sound beyond the door, and then a moving of levers and locks and a twisting of gears, and suddenly the door was open.
At first glance Prospero looked to be a bit insane, his graying hair sticking up in all directions and his clothes mismatched and disheveled. Like I remembered from 60 Minutes, he had dark skin the color of hazelnuts, and dark, intensely curious eyes, as if he was sizing us all up. Dad seemed starstruck. It was as if Britney Spears and the president and that guy from Wheel of Fortune were all rolled up into one person.
Prospero squinted at us, clearly trying to place my dad, teetering on the edge of recognition.
“Well,” he said a moment later, “if it isn’t Doofy Lockwood!” He reached out and pulled my dad in for a tight hug. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. “Doofy, as I live and breathe!”
Millie mouthed, Doofy? to me, and we let Prospero usher us inside.
* * *
“It’s the best place to watch the sky,” Prospero explained, after we’d all officially met, and all sorts of greetings and explanations of our arrival had been exchanged. Apparently elated by our presence, he led us into the dim, empty interior of the observatory, which smelled mildewy and gave us all chills. But I have to admit that it made me proud to see someone famous so happy to see my dad.
“You’ll have to stay for a while,” he went on. “It’s so lonely here. No visitors for years, actually. No one has the stomach to make the trip
west anymore. But I need to be here because”—he waved his hands skyward—“I need the darkness and the clear air blowing in from the sea to let me see the stars better. It’s perfect for my needs.”
It was obvious right off the bat that the observatory (an upper room of which I’m now bathing in) is a gloomy place. (I do wonder why someone with so much money, whose book is a gigantic best seller, wouldn’t at least spring for some carpeting or some nice couches. If I had a best seller, I’d have all my furniture covered in silk, and I’d have a Jacuzzi in my room that I’d sometimes have the maid fill with Skittles.) But Prospero was proud as he led us on the tour, showing us to a large dwelling up above the laboratory, at the top of a wrought-iron spiral staircase.
That’s where we’re staying now, in a big spare loft with mattresses on the floor, full of old furniture with limp cushions, and photos on the walls of galaxies and supernovas. There are several bedrooms branching off to the sides, but they’re all empty, so we’re camped together. We have a view across the top of the park from which we can see some brick buildings covered in ivy (Prospero says they’re old music studios) and the Cloud, which caught up to us yesterday and which is repeatedly being blown several yards east by the ocean breeze, only to drift back to its spot like a jellyfish floating on the ocean current. (I’m trying to use more similes in my writing. Mom says that’s what Leo Tolstoy does, and supposedly he’s really good.)
* * *
Anyway, back to first impressions. Prospero took us through the rest of the observatory—the parts he actually uses to observe the sky—muttering about measurements and angles as he and my dad nodded to each other knowledgeably. They had, I noticed immediately, the same way of tilting their heads when they were talking about math, and the same way of getting lost in their own heads.
Millie smirked at me. “Dad found his twin,” she whispered.
Eventually he led us upward along a winding staircase that clung to the walls of the dome. Climbing higher and higher, we eventually came to a small circular room with a giant telescope poking out of the roof. It was about twenty times the size of my dad’s back home. Dad’s mouth fell open, and Prospero smiled. “We’ll have to take a look together later. All sorts of nebulas and clusters, easy to spot. I also have a cloud gallery with a glass ceiling, and an aviary where I keep all sorts of birds and ducks. I’m an astronomer first,” Prospero explained, turning his attention to the rest of us, “but really I study morphology. It’s the science of forms. I’m interested in the connectedness of all natural patterns. I’ll be glad to show you what I mean but”—he looked around at all of us—“I’m guessing you might need some rest first? We can continue our tour tomorrow.”
“Oh, Prospero,” my mom took his hands in hers. “Thank you, for everything. And yes, the kids and I are exhausted.”
“I’m looking forward to a long, long visit,” Prospero said. Mom sent an uncertain look to my dad, who kissed her good night on the cheek. He and Prospero immediately launched into a discussion of something called apertures as the rest of us trailed quietly off to the loft.
I was just drifting off when Dad came into our shared room about an hour later. Mom was staring at the Cloud out the window.
“Don’t worry,” he said, low so he wouldn’t wake us. “We won’t stay long. I’ll explain things to Prospero. Tomorrow I’ll go get our guardian angel. We’ll be on our way in no time.” He didn’t sound as elated as he had when we’d left him, though; he sounded more tired and worried. I wondered what had changed. He gave each of us a kiss good night before climbing onto the mattress with Mom. (The last time he gave me a kiss good night, I think I was seven.)
* * *
My wrist hurts from writing so much, and the bath has gone cold. I’ll just finish by saying that it’s still morning (as much as I was hoping to stretch this bath out into the afternoon), my dad has gone to get our angel (taking some of Grandma’s sock money with him) and this diary is finally (!!!) caught up.
December 6th
It’s only been a day, but everything has changed. Things are worse than I could have ever possibly imagined they would be! I don’t know which terrible thing to start with. I wish I could go back to the last time I wrote, in my cold bath, when I still had so much faith in Dad and hope for the future!
Yesterday the waiting continued endlessly. Prospero had sent Dad, Grandma’s sock of money in hand, to the Bright Market (where you can find angels for hire) clear across the city near Malibu, so we already knew it was going to take forever. . . . But it really, really took forever. I spent the morning trying to occupy myself and picturing who he was going to come back with.
Around ten, Mom, Millie, and Oliver went to the aviary to pass the time, but Sam is allergic to feathers, so I stayed behind in the loft and entertained him. First I drew mustaches on our faces with one of Prospero’s Sharpies, and we pretended to be the mayors of Los Angeles before the beasts chased them out. Then for about an hour we played office and I let him pretend to be my boss, saying “Yes, sir! Right away, sir!” and rushing out to get whatever he asked for. We measured ourselves with a tape measure and I realized I’ve gotten two inches taller, though Sam has stayed about the same. I pretended to be a magic carpet and kept piggybacking him to the window so we could look out at the overgrown park, the palm trees, and the blue, sunny LA sky.
When we heard a creaking on the stairs, we rushed to the doorway, sure it was Dad. But it was only Prospero calling us for lunch.
After tracking down the others, we all gathered to eat in his quarters—a disheveled and dusty set of rooms littered with star charts and binoculars, telescopes, mummified remains of butterflies and dragon claws, and anatomical diagrams of tigers, yetis, clouds. Oliver couldn’t help touching things, studying them with his eyebrows furrowed in deep thought, but Prospero didn’t seem to mind.
“I don’t usually have lunch guests.” He smiled, and cleared off a table in the corner of a massive pile of books and old newspapers. (The top one was ancient, announcing that Ronald Reagan and “famous fur trader Paula ‘Plenty of Pelts’ Ruskin” had just been elected president and vice president.)
“We’re so grateful,” said my Mom, sitting next to Millie who was already perched on a wobbly chair. Prospero served us bowls of soup from a small oil stove. “It’s just Progresso. An angel brings it for me from Ohio.”
We all nodded politely and dug in, and for a few minutes there was only the sound of scraping spoons and slurping.
“So how do you all plan to get back home, once your visit is over?” Prospero asked cheerfully. “Wagon? Horseback? I have some ideas. Though I want you to stay as long as possible.”
“Oh, we’re not going back home,” Mom said, looking a little confused. “Didn’t Teddy talk to you about that last night?”
Prospero laughed, his brown eyes twinkling, and shook his head. “Wow, you’re an adventurous family! Where to next?”
We all blinked at each other, feeling suddenly awkward. “Well,” my mom ventured, “Teddy has some questions to ask you about that.”
Prospero laid his spoon down and folded his hands up under his chin, looking suddenly enlightened. “Oh! You mean about the Extraordinary World? He did ask me.”
We all stared, practically leaning forward on our chairs, wondering what advice he’d give us. After all, this was the guy who’d written The Atlas of the Cosmos.
“Are you familiar with the concept of entropy?” he asked instead, smiling and leaning his chin on his hands. We nodded.
“Dad talks about enter-fee sometimes,” Sam said. “I cover my ears, but I can still hear him.”
Prospero smiled. “Well, then you know that things move from order to disorder over time, and that’s called entropy. Some people say there’s a lot of disorder going on in our world.” He paused to let this sink in. “Our world is messy and wild and full of monsters (everywhere we go, it seems we find more of them) and some people say that means it’s ‘high entropy.’ Some scientists claimed t
o notice a sharp increase in entropy in the sixties, based on the weather and the number of beasts coming farther north.”
I was a little confused, but enough of what my dad’s always saying had sunk in that it did make a little sense. Prospero leaned back from the table. “Now, as you know, I study physics. And in physics, there are two major theories—one of them that deals with the very big things, like planets and space, and one that deals with the very small things, like tiny little particles—that’s quantum mechanics.”
Sam slapped his hand against his forehead with dread and whispered, “Count ’em mechanics, too,” despondently, while Millie gave me a significant look of boredom. But somehow I found it more interesting coming from Prospero.
“Quantum mechanics tells us particles can jump all over the place,” I offered.
“Yes,” Prospero said cheerfully, impressed. “And people think it’s completely up to chance where those particles go and what they become. They jump and jitter, and it makes them unpredictable. Which is kind of exciting.”
“Dad says that’s why in this world our Winnebago is a Winnebago, but in another world it could be an elephant.”
Prospero nodded. “Exactly. Now, there’s a theory that links the two things together—the study of the really big things and the study of the small, jittery ones. It involves something called superstrings, and—if the theory’s right—it means there are other dimensions out there, and other worlds. And maybe some of these other worlds are ‘lower entropy’ . . . more orderly . . . than ours.”
“And you think the Extraordinary World is one of those places?” Mom asked. “One of those places that’s less messy? You think we could be safe there?”
Prospero shook his head. “No, I don’t.” He picked up his spoon and then laid it down in the bowl again. “I don’t, because it doesn’t exist.”
* * *
Sorry, I had to put down my pen for a minute because I was clutching it so hard I thought I might break it in half. But I’ve calmed myself a little now, so I’ll keep going.