The Guardians of Zoone

by Lee Edward Födi

  “But?” Ozzie prompted—because he knew one was coming. Like it was standing at the front door working up the nerve to knock.

  “But,” Aunt Temperance continued delicately, “I don’t think sitting down here in the cold will solve anything. You can’t just live in the hope that this door will magically open, Ozzie. Sometimes things don’t turn out the way you want.”

  “What I want is to try the door again,” Ozzie said, leaping to his feet. “Right now.”

  Aunt Temperance tucked the loose strand of silver hair behind her ear. “We tried yesterday, Ozzie. We try every day.”

  “There’s no harm in trying again.”

  Aunt Temperance frowned. Ozzie knew what she was thinking: You’ll just be disappointed.

  “I keep telling you how great it is at Zoone!” he insisted. “There’re a thousand doors, a thousand worlds! And some of the doors will even talk to you. The mail is delivered by quirls, and there’s all my friends—you’ve met Lady Zoone, and there’s Tug and Fidget and—”

  “I know, Ozzie, I know,” Aunt Temperance cut him off. “But . . .”

  Ozzie stared her down.

  “All right,” she relented. “We’ll try. But then we go back upstairs. You can finish your shake and read your manga.”

  She plucked at the cord around her neck, revealing a large, tarnished key with a “Z” for its bow. She passed it to Ozzie and he clenched it hopefully. Every other time he had tried the key, the door had opened—but only revealed a wall of dusty bricks. That wasn’t supposed to happen, not with Aunt Temperance’s key. What he should see was a pathway leading through a swirl of stars. At least when the door was working.

  Ozzie stood up, took a deep breath, and inserted the key.

  He was greeted by a clunk.

  Ozzie grimaced and tried again. Another clunk. He tried wriggling and turning the key, but something was blocking it.

  “Here, let me,” Aunt Temperance said, bending to peer at the peculiar key. She used both hands to try to twist it in the lock, but with no success.

  “It’s never done that before,” Ozzie fretted. He took a step back and regarded the door. Was it getting worse? More closed? Was that even possible?

  Aunt Temperance suddenly stood to her full height. “Did you hear that?”

  “I don’t hear any—”

  “Shh!” Aunt Temperance hissed.

  Ozzie fell silent, and that’s when he detected a faint humming. It soon turned into a buzz, reminding Ozzie of an angry wasp.

  “It’s coming from the door!” Aunt Temperance cried. “Quick, get back!” She grabbed Ozzie by both shoulders and dove back against the far wall.

  The droning sound intensified—and then, suddenly, the key shot out of the door like a bullet. Aunt Temperance gasped and Ozzie instinctively ducked, just in time. The key ricocheted off the bricks exactly where his head had been, then clattered to the floor, glowing hot and orange. There was a smell of scorched metal, like burning brakes on a car.

  When Ozzie looked back to the door, he could see a wisp of smoke curling from the lock. Then a tiny metal antenna emerged, soon followed by another.

  “What is that?” Aunt Temperance whispered.

  A miniature metallic creature poked through the keyhole. It had a cluster of bulbous eyes, multiple legs, and a pair of pincers that twitched menacingly. It began scuttling across the surface of the door, quickly and erratically, metal feet clicking on the wood.

  Ozzie groaned. Being a boy meant being tough (according to his dad, at least), but he wasn’t—at least not when it came to creepy-crawlies. Especially creepy-crawlies that could fly. Because that’s exactly what the miniature bug now did: It sprouted what looked like a tiny propeller and launched itself into the air to hum around the corridor, its round eyes probing every corner. Ozzie maneuvered himself slightly behind Aunt Temperance.

  “Did that thing come from Zoone?” Aunt Temperance asked.

  “It must have . . . but I’ve never seen anything like it,” Ozzie said, staring nervously at the metallic bug. “They don’t have robots in Zoone.”

  “Hmm,” Aunt Temperance replied.

  The bug pivoted toward Aunt Temperance and seemed to contemplate her, its antennae telescoping up and down. It made a few loops around her head, then landed on top of her hair.

  “Tickles,” Aunt Temperance murmured.

  She obviously wasn’t afraid of the bug, which was something of a surprise to Ozzie. It wasn’t that Aunt Temperance was old or frail—she was, in fact, neither—but he was pretty sure the most terrifying thing she had dealt with in her life was finding a carton of expired milk at the back of the fridge.

  Then the bug must have stung her, because suddenly, Aunt Temperance did scream. And it wasn’t an “I found expired milk” scream. It was a shriek loud enough to rouse the dead—and possibly Mrs. Yang, who lived in Apartment 2A and had been known to sleep through fire alarms, sirens, and all the other commotion that comes from someone trying to make Mother’s Day toast for his aunt when he’s only four years old.

  It was also a scream that snapped Ozzie into action. Aunt Temperance had dropped to her knees and was clutching her hair. Ozzie still had the pamphlet in his hand, so he rolled it into a makeshift club and swung at the bug. He missed—thankfully, he missed Aunt Temperance’s head, too—but the gust from his swipe sent the bug back into the air with an angry buzz. Ozzie decided to keep swinging.

  “Ozzie! Wait! Don’t wreck it!” Aunt Temperance shouted.

  Ozzie ignored her. No one had ever accused him of being athletic, but they had a saying at Zoone: Even a blind quirl sometimes delivers a message. What Ozzie finally delivered was a strike that sent the bug careening into the wall.

  There was a mini explosion of sparks and the metal creature sputtered to the ground, where it lay on its back like a dying fly, its long feelers twitching. Ozzie inched over for a closer look. The bug’s bulbous eyes flickered; then it released a quiet, mechanical groan before turning rigid.

  Aunt Temperance stood alongside him, massaging her head with one hand.

  “Are you okay?” Ozzie asked.

  “It jabbed me,” Aunt Temperance replied. “Didn’t hurt that much, but it startled me.” She prodded the bug with a finger. All its legs were curled up, just how a real bug looked after being clobbered.

  “It’s dead now, right?” Ozzie asked uneasily.

  Aunt Temperance frowned. “Broken, anyway. I don’t think robots can die, can they?”

  Ozzie exhaled. “I guess not.”

  Aunt Temperance was still staring at the bug. “It is marvelous, though.”

  Sure, Ozzie thought, if you consider a flying razor blade with eyes to be marvelous. Which, incidentally, he did not.

  “I think this specimen requires further inspection,” Aunt Temperance announced. “Upstairs, in the proper light.” She picked up the bug, cradled it in her cupped hands, then began wandering down the passageway.

  Ozzie hurriedly scooped up the key from the floor. It still felt warm in his hands. Aunt Temperance had already disappeared around the corner, but he had to give the door another try—because the bug had gotten through, and that meant . . .

  Has to work this time, he pondered. The key now slid easily into the slot, but when he opened the door, there was still only a wall of bricks.

  Frowning, he leaned forward and examined the wall more closely. When he crouched down, he finally noticed it: a small key-shaped hole in the bricks. He peered through the gap—and could just make out a swirling starscape. The track to Zoone was there! The doorway was opening again, just enough to let the bug through.

  “Maybe it’s repairing itself!” Ozzie rejoiced. But why did a robotic flying death bug come through? What’s going on in Zoone?

  “Ozzie!” Aunt Temperance called from around the corner. “Hurry up!”

  Ozzie closed the door, gathered up the blender and his glass, and reluctantly followed Aunt Temperance up the steps.

  “Why are
you in such a hurry?” he called. “You seem . . . I don’t know, discombobulated.”

  It was a pretty impressive word, and he was proud of himself for coming up with it. But Aunt Temperance didn’t even acknowledge it. She just kept moving steadily up the stairs, her gaze transfixed by the bug.

  “This is the thing, Ozzie,” she said eventually. “You may have never seen anything like this creature before. But I think I have.”

  3

  News From the Nexus

  Ozzie chased after his aunt, his mind twisting like the set of steps they were climbing. Where would Aunt Temperance have seen a robotic flying death bug? She didn’t lead a very exciting life. After all, what kind of person had a key to Zoone but never used it? Aunt Temperance had inherited the key from her grandfather and, as far as Ozzie understood, she had always known about the door—she had just never quite believed in its magic, never been tempted to go through it. Ozzie didn’t understand it. As soon as he had discovered the existence of the key, he had, well, “borrowed” it and whisked himself off to find adventure.

  But Aunt Temperance liked to play it safe, stay at home reading books or listening to the “classics” on the radio. Even her job was boring; she was a corporate librarian, which meant she spent her days preparing and organizing legal documents. Just the thought of it made Ozzie yawn.

  They were soon back in Aunt Temperance’s apartment—or, as Ozzie liked to think of it, their apartment. Technically, he lived with his parents, but because they were away so often, he spent most of his time in Apartment 2B. He even had his own room there.

  Aunt Temperance set the bug down on the coffee table and continued to gaze at it with a quizzical expression. Then she disappeared into her bedroom, where she began to rummage around with an uncharacteristic loudness. When she returned, she was tugging a battered steamer trunk, covered with faded stickers that showed the names of distant cities and countries. Ozzie had never seen it before.

  Aunt Temperance knelt down and hesitated a moment before clicking open the trunk. “Welcome to my old life.”

  Ozzie leaned over to see that the trunk was crammed with all sorts of curiosities. There were brightly colored playbills and posters, an assortment of trinkets and jewelry, and peculiar items of clothing, including a leotard that looked like it had drowned in glitter.

  “This all belongs to you?” Ozzie asked in surprise.

  “Yes,” Aunt Temperance explained, “from my days in the circus.”

  “What?!” Ozzie gasped. He suddenly remembered Lady Zoone telling him that Aunt Temperance had once run away to join the circus, but he hadn’t thought it was true. That was just an expression people used. Wasn’t it? “I—I don’t believe it,” he finally stammered.

  “Believe it,” Aunt Temperance said, unrolling a poster and passing it to him.

  In large gold letters, the poster said: Culpepper & Merriweather’s Circus of the Bizarre. But it was the photo under the title that caught Ozzie’s attention: It depicted a young woman in a dazzling sequined suit—the very suit sitting in the trunk!—swinging on a trapeze, long hair flowing out behind her. A starburst graphic boasted: The One and Only Tempest of the Big Top!

  “Wait a minute,” Ozzie said. “That’s you?”

  Aunt Temperance laughed. “Try acting a little less astonished.”

  “But . . . but . . .” What Ozzie really wanted to say was, “There’s days when you can’t even face making breakfast; how could you fly across a circus tent?” But he just continued to gape like a goldfish.

  “Oh, here’s one you should appreciate,” Aunt Temperance said, passing over a second poster. It featured a woman with an impossibly long neck and similarly disproportionate arms, which were stretched out to serve as perches for dozens of birds. Underneath, it read: Behold Madame Arborellia, freak of nature! She can stand hours on end without moving! Wild birds nest in her hair!

  “That’s Lady Zoone!” Ozzie cried.

  “Yes, she lived in our world for many years. We met in the circus.” She paused. “In those days, we were friends. Good friends.”

  “They’re calling the stationmaster for the nexus of the entire multiverse a . . . a freak!”

  “Unfortunately, it sold tickets,” Aunt Temperance said. “Though, why people would want to spend money just to watch her do absolutely nothing for hours on end is beyond m—oh! There it is.”

  A small box with a flowered pattern was nestled in one corner of the chest. Aunt Temperance plucked the box from its confinement and set it on her lap. She took a deep breath, then gingerly opened the box. Ozzie leaned in—only to leap back an instant later.

  There was a bug in the box. A metal bug.

  “It won’t hurt you,” Aunt Temperance assured him. “It’s a cricket. A very cute cricket, I think.” She gently placed the creature on the table.

  Ozzie swallowed. The cricket looked like some kind of antique tin toy. It even had a clockwork key jutting from its back. It wouldn’t have looked that out of place sitting among the other vintage knickknacks on the various shelves of Apartment 2B. He wondered why Aunt Temperance didn’t have it out on display, too.

  Curiosity won him over, and Ozzie found the courage to nudge the cricket with his finger. Then he picked it up, turning it over in his hands to see that its innards consisted of a complicated system of gears and wires. He set the cricket down again and twisted the clockwork key. Lights flickered in its bulb-like eyes, its wings juddered—but almost before it had started, it sputtered to a stop.

  “Doesn’t work properly,” Aunt Temperance said. “Not anymore. Maybe . . . maybe it never did.”

  She picked herself up, sat in the nearest chair, and began staring into space, like she did whenever she was feeling overwhelmed. Ozzie had a feeling that she was talking about something bigger than the cricket.

  “Why haven’t you ever showed this stuff to me before?” he asked.

  “Memories,” she murmured. “Ones I’ve tried to forget. But things keep happening . . .”

  She didn’t finish her sentence, prompting Ozzie to feel a sudden spike of dread. Was this going to turn into one of her depressive episodes? Maybe it had been a good idea to keep this stuff locked up in a trunk. The last time she had fallen into a slump, she hadn’t gotten out of bed for a week.

  And now Ozzie felt guilty—because what had sparked her most recent downward spiral was him finding the door to the nexus, which had prompted Lady Zoone to come visit, and then . . . well, he wished he knew why it had upset her so much. Something must have happened in her past that he still didn’t understand.

  Ozzie’s gaze wandered over to the robotic flying death bug, still lying upside down on the coffee table. Then he looked back at the cricket. “This is why you thought the death bug was familiar?”

  Aunt Temperance slowly nodded.

  She said nothing more, so Ozzie began stuffing the posters and playbills back in the steamer trunk—which was when he noticed a flyer with an illustration of a robotic cricket, just like the one on their table. Above the picture, in whimsical clockwork letters, it declared: Visit the Menagerie of Mechanized Marvels! Only at Culpepper & Merriweather’s Circus!

  “This doesn’t make sense,” Ozzie muttered. “I mean, the cricket came from the circus. From here, right? And the robotic flying death bug came through the door, which means it must have come from . . .”

  “Zoone,” Aunt Temperance added softly. “Which means . . .”

  She trailed off again. Ozzie stepped right in front of her. “Hello? Aunt T? Which means what?”

  Aunt Temperance blinked and focused her eyes on Ozzie, as if only suddenly remembering that he was there. “Which means it’s a clue to . . .”

  “Will you stop doing that?!” Ozzie cried. “Finish a sentence! Are you okay?”

  Aunt Temperance rose firmly to her feet, put her hand on Ozzie’s shoulder, and looked him straight in the eye. “I’m more than okay, Ozzie. No more sitting around. As soon as that door opens, we’re going to Z
oone.”

  Aunt Temperance was a new woman. Ozzie had been worried about the trunk of memories upsetting her, and maybe it had, initially. But now it seemed to provoke a different result: rejuvenation. She hummed and danced—danced—around Apartment 2B. She even proudly hung one of the circus posters on the living room wall. Aunt Temperance wasn’t hiding from her past now, Ozzie realized. She was embracing it.

  On Wednesday, he came home from school to find her reorganizing the furniture. Which was odd. Aunt Temperance liked a certain consistency.

  “Wait a minute,” he said in a sudden moment of realization. “Why aren’t you at work?” She usually arrived home after him.

  “I quit,” she declared proudly.

  “What?!” Ozzie cried. “What are you going to do for money?”

  “This apartment was left to me by my grandfather,” Aunt Temperance replied. “Which means there’s no rent to pay. I can live off my savings, at least for now. Nothing to worry about, Ozzie.”

  Sure, Ozzie grouched to himself. Because you’re not the one scheduled to be shipped off to Dreerdum’s School of Torture. What if the door doesn’t open? Ever? Or in time? Then I don’t just lose Zoone . . .

  He stared at his aunt.

  I lose you.

  He did what he always did when he was upset: He borrowed the key, raced to The Depths, and checked the door. That was when he realized his aunt might be right; maybe there wasn’t anything to worry about.

  Because the track was definitely repairing itself.

  The hole in the brick wall had expanded—just a little bit, but it was definitely bigger. With a sigh of relief, Ozzie turned and gazed up the long set of steps, toward Apartment 2B. Just between him and himself, he wondered if it was Aunt Temperance’s doing. Maybe her new attitude—announcing her intention to go to Zoone, quitting her job—was speeding up the magical repair of the portal.

  Every day was better than the last. On Thursday, Ozzie could put his fist through the hole. On Friday, he could fit his head. On Saturday, he and Aunt Temperance arrived home from the grocery store to find two visitors from Zoone sitting on their sofa: a humongous flying tiger and a princess with purple hair.