Jasper Dash and the Flame-Pits of Delaware (8 page)

…which took up a whole page.

They opened their eyes. Katie coughed. Lily blew the hair out of her eyes. Jasper smiled. “Jupiter's moons,” he said, “we've done it. We're attached. We've clamped on to the wall. We are now rooms twenty-three A through E of the Dupontville Fine Excellent View Stay Hotel, Dover. We have landed in utmost secrecy.”

There was a cracking. There was a popping.

With a scream, with a crash, with a horrible bump, they fell again.

The Dupontville Fine Excellent View Stay Hotel had not been built very well. The Gyroscopic Sky Suite had just pulled down the whole wall of the place on top of it.

But let us go back a day and see what happened elsewhere while all the excitement was going on in the gym in Pelt. If, the day before, we had been in Vbngoom Monastery, the Platter of Heaven, this is what we would have seen: a boy walking down a dark stone hallway, carrying a vat of lentil soup to gangsters.

His head was shaved, like the heads of all the monks of Vbngoom. He wore robes of green. His bare feet shuffled on the flagstones. On his face was a look of determination.

His name was Drgnan Pghlik.

He passed down a flight of steps so old that the first men to use them had walked on all fours. The walls were painted with gods and oxen.
The boy shifted the huge tin vat in his arms and bowed through a low doorway.

Drgnan Pghlik had lived in the monastery of Vbngoom for almost the whole of his life. He had grown up in Vbngoom. He loved it there. He knew all the cloisters and the towers, the covered paths and secret gardens, the highest pinnacles of rock and the chambers deepest underground. He had taken his vows of obedience and kindness. He had promised never to tell a lie. He had spent months without speaking a word. In return, he was taught by the old, wise monks. They told him to speak in riddles, which he loved.
*
He studied inscriptions carved in stone and learned the art of monastic combat so that one day he could become one of the order's Protectors and go forth into the land to fight evil and ignorance.

But now, his mountain home was threatened. A few weeks earlier, gangsters from Dover's mean streets had busted down the monastery gates and started swinging their guns around, demanding to be shown the treasure rooms. They lit cigars in the sacred flames. Chambers that had lain silent for centuries now echoed with calls of “Hey, youse guys!” and “Wouldja feast your ever-lovin' peepers on this!” The gangsters seized the old, holy treasures. They made fun of the old, holy monks. And they did not leave. They took control of Vbngoom. Since then, everyone in the monastery had lived in fear.

The worst of all of them were the gangsters' kids. Eight boys had come with the mob. They were awful. They made fun of the littlest monks, who were only nine or ten years old. The gangsters' kids kicked the monks and shined their shaved heads like bowling balls. They tortured the young novices with all sorts of mean little injuries: with Noogies and Monkey Bites, with Twister-Burns and Swirlies, with Seal Slaps,
Nettle Wipes, and Goody McCoy's Grouchy Stump. There was no end to the indignities. Thank goodness they were gone at the moment, posing as a Stare-Eyes team so they could take stolen artifacts out of the state without the government noticing. Things had been quieter around the monastery since they left. It seemed, many monks whispered, like it might be an opportunity.

As Drgnan walked down the corridor, the tub of soup weighing heavily in his arms, he passed courtyards where monks now labored for the mob. Their robes were smudged with dirt. Many of them worked building a road up to the monastery so the gangsters could come and go more easily. As Drgnan walked by them now, they stumbled along in rows, brown with dust, bowed over beneath heavy sacks of rocks.

Not for much longer
, he thought. He ducked behind some pillars. He put down the vat. The soup inside swayed from side to side.

Drgnan Pghlik looked both ways. In a split second, he had reached into his robe and pulled out a small bottle of pink liquid. He popped out the lid with his thumb, dumped the whole bottle into the lentil soup, and shoved the vial back into his pocket.

Sleeping potion. Given to him by Brother Herbalist, who had concocted it out of mysterious liquors, rare flowers, and a lot of cough syrup.

Drgnan Pghlik had just put enough sleeping potion in the soup to knock out the whole mob. Once they ate it, they'd drop flat and start snoring—too dizzy to shoot off their pistols. Once the mobsters had fallen asleep, the monks would rise up and truss them.

Never again would these bad men steal sacred treasures. Never again would they yell from tower to tower in their brassy lingo: “Hey, Checkers! Be a sweet pea and stand guard, wouldja? I gots to whizz like all outdoors.” (Echo in the mountains:
whizz like all outdoors… whizz like all
outdoors… like all outdoors… all outdoors…
) Once again, the bridges and chambers would be filled only with talk of kindness and the whispering of ancient riddles.

The boy stilled any sign of sly excitement on his face. He showed no expression whatsoever. He picked up the vat of soup and carried it down the corridor that led to the monastery's refectory.

In the years before the mob had come, the monks had all dined here together, happily discussing the news of the day while eating one long root laid down the length of the table. Now, this was where the mobsters hunched over their entrées, demanding steak.

Drgnan gently knocked the tin tub against the door. A mobster opened it a crack and stuck the muzzle of his gun through. “Who's there?” asked the mobster.

“It is young Brother Drgnan Pghlik. I have come with the lunch from the kitchen.”

“What's lunch, kid?”

“Lentil soup.”

“Yoinks.” The mobster turned away and announced to the room, “Kid in a dress with the feed.”

“Let the squirt in,” said one of the bosses.

The door opened. Drgnan Pghlik entered with his poisoned meal.

The dining room of Vbngoom was simple, made of mud, stone, and plaster, painted white and a dark clay red. High windows looked out across the mountain peaks. At the old wooden tables sat the gangsters in front of their bowls. They growled and muttered to one another.

Drgnan Pghlik had been taught to be peaceful and serene. He did not feel serene or peaceful now—now that he had a huge pot of poisoned stew he had to feed to twenty toughs.

Almost all of the gang's leaders were there in the dining room. The top boss never appeared. Drgnan Pghlik had no idea even what he looked like. He knew all too well, however, the sour faces of the mob's other big shots. They stood
around the tables eating carrots and exchanging business cards.

“Serve it up,” said one of the bosses.

Drgnan Pghlik reached into the pot, picked up the ladle, and began to spoon out sleep-soup into bowls.

As he served, the mobsters sat at the long benches. None of them said thank you.

Drgnan had to still his beating heart to keep from trembling. He didn't want to think of what would happen if they detected the sleeping potion. They had a way of hanging people by their feet out windows. Then the ravens would come.

The lentil soup slid into bowls.
Slop. Slurp. Slugg. Slupp. Sock. Splotch. Splurch.

While he served, the gangsters muttered to one another. (“I hope this don't have no cilantro in it. I hate that cilantro.”) Drgnan Pghlik tried to not look at their eyes. He tried to show nothing.
Splurk. Splatch. Splunch.

Only a few left to go.

Splutch. Splank. Splip.

And the last one.
Splock.

He was done.

“Thank you,” said the last gangster in line.

Drgnan Pghlik looked at the man in shock. None of them had ever said thank you.

He was a short, weasely sort of man. He looked at Drgnan with sudden interest.

Quickly Drgnan bowed and began to back out of the room with the empty vat.

“Not so fast,” said the man. His name was Weasel Chops O'Reilly. He said, “I got a question for you.”

Drgnan paused. Panic beat on the walls of his bare head. He tried to show nothing on his face. He clutched the vat to his chest like a baby, like a shield, like it would protect him. Within the tin, the ladle rocked.

The weasely man stepped forward. He said, “The boys hate cilantro. This got any cilantro in it?”

Drgnan breathed easily. “No,” he said truthfully.

“You sure? 'Cause if there's cilantro, Bargain Basement McGhee is likely to flip his short stack, if you know what I mean, and start Pow! Pow! Pow!”

“There is no cilantro, sir,” said Drgnan Pghlik.

“You sure?”

“I helped the cook make your dinner, sir. It is too delicious for gunplay.”

“Says you. Let's give it the old dip-and-smack,” said Weasel Chops, shoving his finger in his bowl and drawing it out, brown with lentils. He licked his finger. “Mm,” he said. “Mm!”

Several more gangsters gave their soup a try.

“That is yummy,” said Weasel Chops. “That is a high-class soup.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Really.”

“Thank you.”

“Hits the spot.”

“The Company of Saints smiles on your pleasure.”

“So what are the ingredients?”

At that, Drgnan Pghlik froze. He didn't know what to say. He couldn't tell them what was in the soup.

“It is an old recipe,” said Drgnan.

“I didn't ask if it was old,” said the weasely man.

Now Drgnan Pghlik was terrified. He couldn't lie. He had taken a vow to never tell an untruth. “Just… in the soup… a lot of herbs and things. Simmered. On a fire.”

“Come on. Share the secret,” said the weasely man. “There's lentils. And carrots.”

“And onions. And so on.”

“So on?”

“So on.”

“Naw. No so on.”

“You know, so on.”

“I say no so on. What's so on?”

“Ingredients.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Like?”

“Onions.”

“You said that.”

“Did I, sir?”

Weasel Chops smiled slowly. “You can't lie, can you?”

Sadly, Drgnan Pghlik said, “To lie is to duct-tape the eyes of the God of Fate. He still has hands to find you out and goose you.”

“Yeah. So the complete list of ingredients. While I write them down on an index card so as I can send it to my mother, who is a great cook.”

“I'm sure she is, sir,” said Drgnan Pghlik with a sense of infinite sorrow. “I am sure that the feasts around the table of Mother Weasel Chops O'Reilly are spoken of in legend and song.”

Weasel Chops O'Reilly had out his pen and an index card. “Go ahead, kid in a dress,” he said. “Shoot.”

Drgnan Pghlik could not lie—he had promised. He thought about a fib. But he knew he couldn't fib. He couldn't misrepresent. He couldn't tell
a corker. He despaired of ever seeing his friends again. Everything was over. Solemnly, truthfully, he said: “Seven cups of lentils. Eighteen carrots. Ten onions, chopped. Thirty cups of water.” He looked around the faces of the mobsters, all waiting. He finished: “Garlic. Bay leaves. Paprika. Chili powder. Bouillon. And a sleeping potion.”

There was a stunned silence.

“Wow,” one man said. “That's what gives it that extra zing, ain't it, boss?”

“Sleeping potion,” Weasel Chops repeated grimly.

“Yes, sir,” said Drgnan.

“You had a little plan, didn't you, kid?”

“Yes, sir.”

Weasel Chops smiled. He strolled to the table, put down his index card. “I may leave off that last ingredient when my momma makes it.”

“You might also want to cut the recipe down to a fourth,” said Drgnan morosely. “Unless you're entertaining a larger company of sixteen to twenty people.”

Weasel Chops lifted his soup. He held it level with his eyes. Steam laced his lashes and the monastery air. “A bowl of snooze chowder, huh?” he said. “You're a real cutup, kid. Think you're real cute, huh?” He walked over to Drgnan, lifted the vat out of Drgnan's arms, and handed Drgnan his own bowl.

“Eat up,” he said. “You're off to Slumberland.”

“What will you do with me, sir?”

“You'll see real soon.”

“You will never triumph, sir,” said Drgnan Pghlik. “There is no profit in evildoing.”

“You think? I'll show you the receipts. Now take the spoon, and start plugging your whistle-hole, kid.”

Drgnan Pghlik took his first bite of the soup. For a moment, Drgnan had the wild hope that maybe Weasel Chops had licked enough off his own index finger to knock him out cold—but no such luck. Even if Weasel Chops were to drop, there would still be nineteen more.

Helplessly Drgnan fed himself another
spoonful. And another. He was starting to get drowsy. The floor tipped.

“Feeling woozy?” said Weasel Chops. “Sweet dreams, kid in a dress. When you wake up, you're in for a little surprise.”