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Authors: Richard Scrimger

The Boy from Earth (6 page)

BOOK: The Boy from Earth
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I digest this for a moment. I was the best candidate. Huh? Imagine that. Another gust of wind hits from the side. This time I watch carefully and imitate Norbert, angling my slippers to ride the wind up.

He notices, and nods his approval. –
Well done, Dingwall.

“Thanks. So let me get this straight. Your job on Earth was to help me?”


To help you, and to prepare you to be a champion. If you think back, you'll notice that every time you called for help, I came. And each time I came, you needed me less than the time before.

I'm flabbergasted. Is that true? Maybe it is. After all, I'm enjoying myself flying around a strange planet. That would not have been true last year.


And now you're practically ready to be a champion, and we need your help. And here you are.

Lightning flashes a little closer than usual. I jump.

“What do you mean,
practically
ready?”

I hear his exhalation like a sigh. –
The Dey is a real monster. Those pictures we saw in Mad Guy's lab don't show how evil he is. I wanted to prepare you a bit more. But then Nerissa got captured, and … well, I decided you were ready.

“Oh.”

My mind is whirling. What if I'm not ready? What if it's too soon? What if I need help? I don't ask these questions out loud because a champion doesn't whine.

“I see.” Then I have to laugh at myself. Some champion.


There you go.

The sun has set, so I guess you could say that night has fallen. But it hasn't fallen very far. The quality of the light has changed, but it's not a whole lot dimmer than it was during the daytime because of all the moons. Four of them follow us, shining as big and bright as streetlights. If Earth were like this, there'd be no need for lightbulbs.

We lost the minions a while back. Seems our slippers can fly faster than the Dey's hands. I keep checking over my shoulder, but it's just to reassure myself. There's no cloud following us anymore.

Norbert drifts, almost bumping into me. He's tired. I'm tired, too. And I have to go to the bathroom. I hope we stop soon. I check my wrist. The hands on my watch are gone. The face on the dial opens its mouth wide to laugh at me. I look away.


There it is!
says Norbert.
Do you smell it?

I smell swamp. Yuck. Then I get something different. “Smoke,” I say.


That's Bogway Park Lodge. We'll spend the night here
.

Norbert skims off to the right. A few minutes later we reach a long low wooden building, with a smoking chimney and a porch all down one side. We land on the porch side, in the middle of a large square marked off in white chalk lines.

I look up. The sky's clear. “No minions,” I say to Norbert.


They don't like the mud much. That's why we stayed so low. They like to keep themselves clean. As long as we're down here in Bogway Fen, we should be safe. We can sleep soundly tonight.

I don't see a soul, though I can hear the whine of insects. “It seems an odd place to put a hotel,” I say.


Well, Bogway Park Lodge doesn't do a whole lot of business
.

The building isn't much taller than I am, standing up.

It's built into the swamp, so that the porch is on ground level, with steps going down from there. Norbert pushes his way in through swinging doors that might have come from a saloon in the Old West.

I follow, and the first thing I see is a big neon sign, blinking on and off. BATHROOM, it says. I head straight for it. Two minutes later I'm at the front desk, with ringing ears and a fixed determination never to go swimming again.


ID
required.”

The desk clerk is a frog in a baseball cap and glasses with sequins, like your great-aunt wears. She stares up at me,
goggle-eyed, past the burning end of a cigarette stuck in the corner of her wide lipless mouth.

“No one comes in without ID,” she says, drawing on her cigarette until the end is bright red.

“I'm with, uh, Norbert.” I'm still shaken from my experience in the bathroom. “He was just here – a little guy with a white space suit and big eyes. We came in together.”

“Prince Norbert is known here,” says the frog lady, softening momentarily. I should stop calling her the frog lady. The name plate on the desk says WILMA. “He didn't mention you when he checked in.”

“Well, I'm with him. And I'm … important. I'm a champion,” I say.

“You're still a stranger,” says Wilma. “So give me some ID.” She holds out a green long-fingered hand covered in rings.

On the wall behind the desk are four clocks telling different times, and four calendars with different dates. The months have funny names: Barch, Tamuz, Hekatombion. Somewhere on Jupiter today, it's Barch 15th. The ides of Barch.

“Well?” she says. “Don't you have a piece of ID? Something with your name on it?”

She takes a last draw on her cigarette, and then it's gone. Her tongue flashes out like a whip. Next thing I know the cigarette stub is smoking in the ashtray on the desk and her mouth is empty.

I jump back, startled. My hand goes to the pocket of my bathrobe, and I pull out a memory. A major-league
Crime Dog baseball card. Just holding it in my hand brings me back to the summer when they came free inside cereal boxes. I must have had the bathrobe then.

Wilma stares at the card in my hand as if it were a million dollar bill. “Is
that
yours?” she asks.

“This card? Yes, it's mine.”

Her mouth drops open and her tongue rolls out. “You're Fred McGriff!” she croaks.

I guess she thinks this card is some kind of ID. A driver's license, or something. “Me?” I look down at it. Fred stares up at me, calm and tough, bat cocked over his left shoulder. Number 27 for the Atlanta Braves.

“That's amazing. Let's see.” She leans over the counter. “It has your signature and everything. Fred McGriff. You were right: you really are a champion! Imagine – Fred McGriff at my hotel. Wait'll I tell Wes and Steve. I know all about you. They call you Crime Dog, don't they? I remember when the Yankees traded you to Toronto back in the 80s. Then you went to San Diego and Atlanta and Tampa Bay. Why'd you change your mind about Chicago?”

I tell the truth. “I really have no idea,” I say.

“What a career! How many years did you hit 30 dingers – seven in a row? And for five different teams! I always liked your OBP stats too.”

Wilma knows way more about baseball than I do. “Do me a favor,” she says. “Make a face like your picture there. Hold your hands up like you're batting. I want to see.”

I hesitate.

“Go on,” she says.

So I put up my hands, and glare like McGriff the Crime Dog. I'm tingling all over, as if my skin is magnetized. It's a memory flash. You see, I used to pose just like this in the bathroom mirror, with a toothbrush for a bat and a V-necked pajama shirt that looked sort of like a baseball uniform top.

She stares at the card, and then up at me. “I guess there's a bit of a resemblance,” she says. “No one looks like their
ID
photos anyway.”

For the record, I'm a whole lot younger, shorter, paler, and less cool than Fred McGriff. But there it is. I put the card back in my pocket. You know, it is signed. And it's in perfect shape. Looks as if it just got out of the cereal box. Weird.

Wilma checks me in, hops down from her chair, and shows me to the room. The skin on her back is bright lime green with delicate dark spots. “What are you staring at?” she says, turning suddenly.

“Sorry.” I blush. “I've never seen a frog as big as you before.” She comes up to my waist. Her legs are probably as long as mine.

“And you like 'em big, don't you?” She takes off her glasses and smiles at me. “Why, Fred, you devil!”

Her eyes bulge like grapefruits. Her belly hangs down. She flicks her tongue in my direction. It almost hits me.

“I better go now,” I say, swallowing rapidly, hand on the door.

“See you later.” She hops down the hall.

It's a bedroom the way the bathroom in the lobby is a bathroom. (Let me tell you about that, by the way. Pushing through the door under the sign, I entered a round white porcelain room filled with water. The world's biggest toilet bowl. The door shut and locked automatically behind me, for privacy I guess, but the exit door was on the other side of the room. In order to get out, I had to swing across the bowl on a pull chain suspended from the ceiling. My weight on the chain flushed the room, with a noise like a world championship milkshake-drinking competition. My ears are finally returning to normal now.)

Anyway, our bedroom is designed by the same person. It's wall-to-wall mattress. And soft! Stepping over the threshold is like stepping into a pudding.

Norbert hangs up the phone in disgust. –
No room service
, he says.

I can understand that. There's nowhere to put a tray of food.

I walk across the bed to the window, sinking into the mattress with each step. The window is just above ground level. Our room looks out on the chalk-lined square we landed on. Of course I now know it's a diamond, not a square. A baseball diamond. Fred McGriff. I shake my head at that.

One of the moons – the biggest one, faintly blue-colored – rides low in the sky, shining right at me. “Which moon is that?” I ask.

He's yawning. –
Sid
, he says.
You can always tell Sid because there's a smile across the bottom half.

I look. I can't see the smile. I can't see the man in the moon back on Earth either. I shut the curtain, and let myself fall back onto the expanse of mattress. I sink right in, without bouncing at all. The mattress wraps itself around me like a soft and comforting hug. I don't need a blanket or pillow.

“Is it bedtime?” I ask. “My watch is broken.”


Are you tired?

“Oh, yes.”

– Then it's bedtime.

I know I should wash my face and hands and brush my teeth, but I can't summon the energy. I can't even be bothered to take off my backpack.

“Night, Norbert.”


Night. Oh, uh, Dingwall?

“Mmm?”


You did well today. Learning to fly and all. And getting us away from the minions.

I smile. I can't remember Norbert complimenting me before. “Well, they are my slippers,” I say. I slide my feet out of them now. I don't want to be flying by accident in my sleep. Ahh, that feels nice. It's a relief to wriggle my toes and not have to worry about where I'm heading.

“Where are we?” I ask, with my eyes closed.


Remember the map? This is Bogway Fen, near the edge of the right hemisphere. Tomorrow we'll pick up the Parietal River, which will lead us through the Random Lands.

“Do we have far to go?”


Are you anxious?

“No, not really.”


Good. If you were anxious, it'd be far away. Everything seems far away when you're anxious. If we keep the rising sun in our eyes, the river under us, and Sid on our right hand, we should get to the Amyg Dale tomorrow. The Sudden Mountains aren't too far from there.

“Oh,” I say.


Mind you, I'm anxious. So my estimate may be wrong
.

For a moment, all is quiet. I'm drifting away, imagining the Dey as a little guy with a bowling shirt. I knock him down in front of his castle, and ring the doorbell. Its chimes sound like a ringing telephone.

I come back to the hotel room. The phone is ringing. I ignore it. It rings again. Norbert picks it up. I'm feeling comfortable and warm, not quite awake and not quite asleep. A nice place to be.


What are you talking about? A party? I don't want to go to a party…. I don't care how much trouble you went to. I'm asleep…. What do you mean, it's not for me? I'm Norbert, of course it's for me…. Who's it for then? … Look here, Melon-for-brains! You've got the wrong room! There's no one named Crime Dog here.

I sit up. Norbert is sputtering into the phone.


Yes, I called you Melon-for-brains! Want another nick name?

I cough to attract his attention. “Uh, Norbert, they mean me. I'm Crime Dog.”


What are you talking about, Dingwall?

“Not Dingwall,” I say. “My name is McGriff.”


Hang on
, says Norbert into the phone.

Turns out that they're throwing a party for me – well, for Crime Dog – in the lobby of the lodge. The whole of Bogway Fen is baseball crazy, and it's not often they get a big leaguer in the neighborhood.


But you're not a big leaguer
, says Norbert.

“They think I am.” I decide to wear the bathrobe, but leave the knapsack in the room. “You're coming too, aren't you?” I ask, at the door.

– Are you kidding? I wouldn't miss it for anything. I want to hear all your baseball stories. Say, why do they call them, bases anyway?

“I don't know.”


And why a shortstop? Why short? Is there a long stop?

“I don't know.”


Okay, then, what about you? What position do you play?

“I don't know. First base, I think.”

He snorts. –
Quite the well of knowledge, aren't you, Ding-Dog.

“Crime Dog. My nickname is Crime Dog. Geez, do you think they'll want to know stuff like that?” I check the card in my pocket. “I play first base, bat left, and throw left.”


Come to think of it, Ding-Dog might be a good nickname for you.

“Shut up.”


Sounds like a doorbell with a cold. Ding-Dog. Ding-Dog. Heu-heu-heu
. He keeps chuckling all the way to the lobby.

The
WELCOME FRED MCGRIFF!
banner stretches right across the room. The noise level is high, and getting higher. The frog ladies and gentlemen and children are croaking at once. They all want to shake my hand and get my autograph. Then they want to feed me. I say thank you, and take bite after bite, sip after sip. Soon I'm full of Jupiter grapes, Jupiter artichokes, and Eye of Jupiter, which looks like fried eggs but tastes way better.

My favorite thing is an almond cake, maybe because it's served by an apparition – an incredibly beautiful girl. She looks like a model. What is she doing here? She stands out among the frogs like a unicorn in a pack of gophers. Everything about her is long: she's got long blonde hair spilling out from under her ball cap, long eyelashes, and long long tanned legs. I quickly look away.

“Hi, there!” she says brightly, coming right up to me, holding out a golden square in her long tapered fingers. Her voice is clear and bright.

I stare at her eyes. Blue as cornflowers. I don't dare stare for long anywhere else. Like the rest of the crowd, she's naked. In a magazine, she'd be modeling perfume, or suntans. Or else she'd be a centerfold.

“We can be friends!” she says, pushing the dessert into my mouth.

I nod vigorously.

Beside her stands Wilma from the front desk. “It's an old family recipe,” she explains to me. “Jupiter aligned with marzipan.”

“It's great!” I say, swallowing. “Could I have some more?”

“I can do that!” The girl hastens away.

“Thanks for being so nice to Barbara,” Wilma whispers to me. “She's my special child.”

“She's your daughter?” I say. “But she doesn't look like … I mean she's really … nice,” I finish, lamely.

Wilma smiles. “She's very special. I cried when she was born, but I'm used to her now. I love her for who she is, poor homely thing.”

“Ho-homely?” Remember, Wilma is a myopic frog, squatting waist high and belching cigarette smoke like a factory chimney. I guess it's all a question of context.

“She's so … hairy.” Wilma shudders. “And her skin is that pasty golden color, and her legs are scrawny.”

“Oh, I don't know,” I say, staring across the room. Barbara has her back to me. Her legs go right up, and her hair goes right down.

“It's okay, Crime Dog. You already told me you like 'em big. Ho-ho-ho.” Wilma stretches her own left leg out. It's as long as she is. She waggles her long webbed toes. “Now
that's
big,” she says.

Two guys hop up to me – one with a cigar and one with a porkpie hat instead of the usual ball cap. “Hey, Crime Dog,” says Cigar. “Settle a bet here. Wes and I were arguing about which pitcher you've had the most success against.”

Porkpie is Wes, I guess.

I go blank. I cannot recall the name of a single major-league pitcher. Not one. “Grunewald,” I say, at length.

They frown at each other. “Grunewald?”

“One game I hit four home runs in a row off him,” I say. I don't explain that it was in our backyard, and we were using a beach ball and a tennis racket. Grunewald is my friend Victor's last name.

“Grunewald plays for Cleveland, right?” asks Wes. His porkpie hat is the same pale yellow color as his underbelly.

I try to think how to put it. “I'm pretty sure he's
heard
of Cleveland,” I say.

I leave them muttering to each other, and go after Barbara. I find her standing in front of the cake. Here, at Bogway Park Lodge, they do things big. Big toilets, big beds, big cakes. This marzipan thing is like a section of wall, almost as high as the ceiling and as thick as the table
it's resting on. Barbara is scooping a piece of the cake onto a plate for me. Beside her, a clutch of little tadpoles are digging in with spoons. An older frog is leaping to the top of the cake to get some icing for her plate.

“Hi, Barbara,” I say, coming up behind her. “That's some cake, huh?”

Her legs look perfect.

She turns. “Hi, there!” she says, the same way she did when she first saw me. “Let's be friends!” She seems glad to see me. A beautiful naked girl is glad to see me. All right, maybe that happens to you every day, but it's a new experience for me.

“Uh … sure,” I say. I swallow. “Sure,” I say again.

Smooth, Dingwall, very smooth.

I step forward, with no very definite idea in my mind. Her hand reaches for me. And that's when something heavy crashes into the side of the building.

The frogs stop talking at once. The room waits. “Is it him?” someone whispers.

There it is again. And again. Could it be an earthquake? No. An earthquake doesn't knock like a hammer on the wall of the building. An earthquake doesn't rattle the furniture – no, wait, it does do that. An earthquake doesn't cast a shadow when it crosses in front of a window.

“It's him!” croaks one of the frogs, in a voice loud enough for all to hear. I look over. It's Wes, my friend in the porkpie hat. He's standing a bit farther down the cake, looking nervous. “He's back!”

And panic strikes, as suddenly as diarrhea. One minute it's not there, and the next minute you can't think of anything else. The lobby of the lodge is full of giant leaping frogs. They bound past me on the way to the door, crashing into one another in midair, falling, sprawling, flopping, hopping. The doorway is jammed with slippery green bodies.

Something is pounding on the outside wall, hard enough to shake the whole building. The hysteria mounts. I want to get out, but I can't seem to move my legs. The frogs are everywhere. I'm bigger than they are, but not faster. I can't push them all out of the way. I call for Norbert, but my voice is lost in the thunder of croaking.

And then the building starts to come down. I am curiously calm as I notice the wall nearest me detach itself from the ceiling, and fall towards me. Time slows down. Sound and feeling go away. The wall hits me, silent, painless, heavy, knocking me to the floor. My left arm is pinned beneath me. I scream silently, reach out blindly with my right hand. Then the floor hits me from underneath, and I can feel myself going up like an express elevator. I don't know how long this feeling lasts – not very long. When it stops, everything is quiet.

My mouth is full of something soft and tasty. I swallow instinctively. Almond cake. I can't see. Something is pressing on my eyes. And the rest of me. Something heavy, but
bearable, like a dozen blankets. I struggle, but can't lift myself. My left arm has fallen asleep.

“Hello?” I say. When I open my mouth, more almond cake falls in. I chew and swallow. “Hello?” My voice sounds remote from the rest of me, the way it does after your ears have popped.

I can't move any part of me except my mouth and right arm. I feel around blindly. “Help!” I call. More almond cake. I chew and swallow. “Help!” I call again.

Something soft under my fingers. Soft and smooth and rounded. I have no idea what it can be. A water balloon? I squeeze it a bit, and hear a voice I recognize.

“Hi there!”

“Barbara?” I say. “Barbara, are you okay?”

“This is fun!” she says.

More almond cake in my mouth because my mouth is wide open. I think I know what I have my hand on. Not a water balloon.

“Sorry!” I say. I move my hand away from her … her….

With the rosy red tidal wave of embarrassment comes a – belated – dawning of sense. I realize that I am not quite as helpless as I feel. It wasn't a real wall that fell on me, but a wall of cake. It's as thick and almost as heavy as stone, but not nearly as strong. I snake my right hand back to my side, and use it to push cake away from my eyes. Some falls into my mouth. I swallow it. I shake my left arm, which is tingling, coming back to life. I can use it. I push some cake out of the way, trying to dig a tunnel to the top. You know those avalanche movies? It's sort of like that. Or
The Great
Escape.
But with one key difference. There isn't any place to put the handfuls of cake I'm clearing away. I can't reach behind me. The only empty space I have is my mouth. I fill it quickly. When I swallow, it's empty again. So I fill it again. And again.

That's right, I end up eating my way to freedom. Handful after handful, bite after bite. Sounds like it'd be fun, but it isn't. For one thing, there's no milk to wash it down. And there's no stopping, even after I begin to get full. My mom calls me a bottomless pit, but I'm not. I'd like to be excused, but I keep eating anyway. I breathe cake. I live cake. My world is cake. I keep chewing and swallowing until there's enough space around me so that I can sit up. That's better. I move faster now, digging through cake like a dog, pushing the handfuls behind me, clawing, scrabbling, tunneling, until, at long last, my hands break through. I clear enough cake away to get my head out, and take a deep breath of air that doesn't reek of almonds. A few frantic after-dinner heaves later and I'm standing in waist-deep cake. I climb out without too much difficulty My space suit feels too tight, my hair is full of crumbs, and I've eaten enough dessert to last me all the birthdays of my life, but I'm free.

BOOK: The Boy from Earth
11.97Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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