by Lija Fisher
“And aliens are considered cryptids. So, if they’ve found proof of aliens, then maybe, just maybe, other cryptids exist, too.”
Jerry swung his eyes from the glass door and stared at Clivo in disbelief. “Are you asking me to tell you if my dad’s found proof of extraterrestrial life?”
“I mean, I don’t need details and all…”
“Clivo, I’m thirteen—as if my dad would tell me that stuff. Not even the president of the United States knows everything my dad knows.”
“How is that possible?”
“SETL is a nongovernmental organization. The government quit giving us money back in 1993, so we’re not required to tell them squat—no pay, no play. We could have three little green guys playing a mean game of poker downstairs and no one would know.”
Clivo leaned forward, awestruck. “Do you?”
Jerry shot him a “really?” expression.
Clivo held his hands up. “Still, you could have found something. I’m not asking for details, Coops! Just maybe a subtle hint, a nod or something. I don’t know, blink your left eye once if you’ve found anything, just so I know what’s possible.”
“Blink my eye once? When did we leave planet Earth and fly to Loony Town?” Jerry exclaimed, a half-chewed bean flying out of his mouth. “Clivo, relax. We haven’t found anything. And we won’t. There’s no such thing as extraterrestrial life.”
Clivo sat back in his chair, once again disappointed. He barely registered the loud bells and whistles that were suddenly sounding from the main room.
“Are you sure?”
Jerry glanced again at the glass door, craning his neck to see what was going on. “Yes, I’m sure. And what do you mean ‘aliens are considered cryptids’? Where do you get this stuff?”
“I looked it up on the internet,” Clivo said. “Aliens are cryptids. They’re in the same category as demons, angels, and fairies. Those are the myth-based ones. Then there’s the other kind of cryptids that are more legend based, like Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster—” Clivo was speaking as quickly as possible so Jerry couldn’t cut him off, but Jerry of course did.
“Whoa! So if we’re talking about fairies and demons now, do you think Tinker Bell exists? Should I wear some garlic around my neck in case Dracula makes a house call?”
“Well, no…”
“Fine, they’re myths and legends! That means ‘stories,’ Wren. Fake stuff. Created when people told them over a bonfire while dancing naked and roasting a saber-toothed tiger.”
Clivo shook his head. “But listen, a lot of cryptids aren’t just myths—they exist, because people have seen them. They’re not just stories, they’re scientific mysteries.”
“There’s no mystery with aliens. SETL has had cameras, satellites, microphones, robots, and sound waves scanning the universe since the 1980s. And nothing. I’m sorry, Wren, your dad was just a boring, absent archaeologist. And you’re just a kid with mad language skills who keeps flunking out of English class for reasons I still don’t understand. There’s no magic unicorn that will change any of that.”
Clivo nodded, his excitement deflating. He supposed he really had been hoping there was something magical out there that would make his life different than it was.
A loud gong sounded from the other room. Jerry quickly stood up.
“So, I should go, Dad probably needs his caffeine boost…”
The door to the break room crashed open and Mr. Cooper came running in. His eyeglasses were askew and his shirt was partially untucked. He looked like he had seen a ghost. Or an alien.
“Okay, Clivo, time to make like a rat and scurry away! Very important things are afoot.” He quickly grabbed the tin of Yummy Sniff instant coffee and shoveled a spoonful of the dry crystals into his mouth. “Jerry, will you walk him out? Good to see you, Clivo! Maybe you can come for dinner on, say, Friday? Oooo, do I smell Taco Comet?”
Mr. Cooper ushered the two boys out of the break room into the hallway, and Clivo entered a hubbub of action. The main room of the SETL Institute was in chaos. Everyone was scrambling around, looking at screens or listening on headsets. A woman talking exuberantly on the phone noticed Clivo staring with his mouth agape, so she pulled a shade on one large pane of the glass wall, hiding the room from view.
“What was that all about?” Clivo asked Jerry once they were back in the lobby.
Jerry glanced at the receptionist, then motioned for Clivo to join him outside, where he began pacing and mumbling.
“You okay, Coops?” Clivo asked.
But Jerry kept pacing and mumbling, like he was engaged in a very serious discussion with himself.
“Coops?” Clivo asked again, wondering what was wrong with his friend.
Jerry quit his pacing and looked at Clivo as if Clivo had just kicked his dog or something. “Fine. UFOs exist! Are you happy?”
Clivo shook his head. “Wait, what?”
“They exist, okay? My dad has found three in his career. Maybe four. But ask me no further questions!”
Clivo was stunned. “Why haven’t you ever told me this?”
Jerry paced faster and began kicking pebbles out of his way. “What was I supposed to do? Reveal one of the world’s biggest secrets? This is top secret stuff, Wren. Like throw-you-in-a-concrete-cell-and-torture-you-for-information kinda stuff. My dad swore me to total secrecy on pain of death.”
Clivo’s head was swirling with so many questions he didn’t know where to begin. “When did you find out about this?”
Jerry pursed his lips but finally blurted out, “My dad told me when I was a kid.”
“Your dad told you?!”
“Well, he explained it to me after I broke into his desk at home and found photos.”
Clivo looked down at the black asphalt of the parking lot, trying to make sense of this new world where aliens existed. “Do they look like green, wrinkled, bald men with big ears?”
Under the circumstances it was the only thing he could think of to say.
Jerry nodded. “Actually they do. Wait! I shouldn’t have said that! Ask me no further questions! Just … I don’t know what’s going on with your all-of-a-sudden-incredibly-interesting family but … ‘there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ That’s all I’m going to say.”
“You just told me aliens exist and now you’re quoting Shakespeare? Who are you and what have you done with my meathead friend?” Clivo asked, amazed.
At that moment the secretary, a short, grandmotherly woman with thick spectacles dangling from a chain of pearls, stuck her head out the door. “Jerry, darling, your father needs you. Time to say goodbye to your friend.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Tarkenton, I’ll be right there.” The door closed and Jerry turned toward Clivo, a look of dead seriousness on his face. “Look, I honestly don’t know if earthbound cryptids are real. I really don’t. Maybe it’s possible your dad was training you to become a—”
“Cryptid catcher,” Clivo said, sticking his chin out proudly.
“Okay. Just … whether he was or not, be careful. If there’s dangerous stuff out there, I can see you running straight toward it, just to prove something to your dad. Which is dumb because he’s crossed over—sorry to be harsh. You may know some karate—”
“Jujitsu.”
“Okay! But staying with Aunt Pearl whenever your dad was away over all these years hasn’t exactly made you a tough guy. No offense, but you’re kinda a wet noodle.” Jerry ran to the door and yanked it open. “Just promise me you won’t do anything crazy!”
Clivo threw his hands up in the air. “This, coming from a guy running off to chase space invaders! And I’m not a wet noodle!”
Jerry slammed the door and motioned for Clivo to be quiet. He spoke in a hushed whisper. “They’re harmless! With an insatiable appetite for ambercup squash. And yes you are!”
Jerry went back into the building, leaving Clivo standing in the beating sun, wondering what new world he had just entered
.
V
Clivo rode his bike faster than he’d ever ridden it up the dirt road to his house. The sun was beginning to drop below the surrounding mountains, casting long shadows from the tall, thin pine trees. The thick forest seemed to close in around him and he jumped every time a squirrel scurried through the crinkly dead leaves, his senses now on high alert for whatever other creatures might be hiding in the woods. Normally he enjoyed the shade provided by the needled branches as he huffed and puffed his way up the hill, but now the pockets of darkness from which numerous eyes could be watching gave him the chills. So he continued pedaling hard, eager to search his house for any clues to the mystery he was facing.
He dropped his bike in the front yard and plowed through the front door, tapping the coat of armor in his usual ritual. “Hey, Bernie,” he said distractedly.
After locking the cats in the kitchen, he ran into his dad’s study and began scanning it for some kind of sign that Russell had been something other than the archaeologist he had claimed to be. Clivo’s eyes flicked around the room, looking for something, anything, that could be considered a hiding place. If his dad really was a cryptid catcher, he must have left some evidence behind.
He started with the dusty bookshelves, which were tightly packed with books. He pulled the tomes off one by one and flipped through them to see if there was anything hidden inside. But they were all what their covers advertised them to be—books on ancient civilizations and dinosaurs and a wide variety of other subjects, with nothing hidden amid the pages. Oddly, none of the books showed signs of heavy use, save for Les Propheties, the prophecy book by Nostradamus.
Next Clivo moved to the large mahogany desk. He riffled through the drawers, which were filled with National Geographic magazines and papers on Australopithecus afarensis. But everything was too fresh and too neat. The pages of the National Geographics were stuck together as if they had never been flipped through. Why would his dad have so many books and magazines that he had never read? It was almost like Russell had set up a fake study to make him look like an archaeologist when he really wasn’t. Encouraged, Clivo pulled the heavy drawers out completely and began looking for secret compartments. The thought that his dad had been training him for something—something greater than struggling through remedial classes—kept driving him. More importantly, if he found something, it meant that his dad had paid more attention to him than he had ever realized, that he hadn’t been simply invisible to his father. Clivo pulled the drawers out faster.
But the desk revealed nothing, just empty holes where the drawers had been, with blank space behind them. Clivo stood with his hands on his hips, scanning the rest of the room. His eyes fell on the faded globe and his heart raced as he realized what a perfect hiding spot it was. He ran into the kitchen, grabbed a screwdriver, and tore the thing apart. He separated the two halves, but nothing was inside. No map, no coded instructions, no Zip drive to be plugged into a computer.
Clivo whirled around, desperate now. He tried to move the bookcases to see if there was a secret stairwell behind them, but they wouldn’t budge. He moved his father’s massive desk and rolled up the red carpet beneath it to see if there was a trapdoor that led to a hidden basement. Nothing.
He slumped into a chair. He was about to tear into the upholstery and pull the stuffing out, but he decided against it. Explaining to Pearl that he was destroying furniture because he thought his dad might have been a catcher of mythological beasts probably wouldn’t go over so well.
Clivo looked around the room in disappointment and put the desk back in place before Aunt Pearl returned from her job washing dogs at the Humane Society.
Had his father ever said anything that was meant to be a clue? Russell must have planted some trail to the truth in case something happened to him. Catching beasts was probably pretty dangerous, and Russell must have known that. He wouldn’t have risked something happening to him without leaving some kind of evidence behind as to what he did, right?
Clivo stood in the study and let the comforting smell of his dad’s old meerschaum pipe wash over him. He was ready to give up the whole search and resign himself to a future of remedial classes when memories began flooding his head. He thought of the camping trips when his dad had taught him how to build a snow cave, of the conversations they had had in other languages, of the first time he had pinned his dad in a jujitsu practice. He remembered his dad’s favorite saying: “Some things are meant to be hidden. It’s much better for the world to have its myths and its magic.” These were all signs that something was different about his life, but he needed more.
He left the study and looked at the artifacts from other countries that filled the house. Clay tablets from the Persian Empire leaned against one corner, a miniature stone obelisk from Ethiopia sat on a side table, and a jade necklace from the Shang Dynasty hung on a hook. Did any of these contain secret messages?
Clivo squatted by one of the clay tablets, running his fingers over the engraved cuneiform characters that looked like a bunch of slashes and triangles. His dad had taught him a lot of languages, but not that one.
With a sigh Clivo stood up, his eyes falling on Bernie, the suit of armor, and instantly his dad’s voice filled his head.
“Bernie’s a quiet fellow, but if he could talk, I’m sure he’d have a lot of secrets to tell. Don’t you think so, C?”
The sound of the armor ringing as his dad rapped it with his knuckles echoed through Clivo’s memory.
Mesmerized, Clivo approached Bernie, staring at the suit of armor as if it held the world’s greatest treasure. His dad had brought the artifact back from a trip to England years before, and it was one of Clivo’s favorite mementos. Bernie was taller and broader than Clivo, and his polished silver armor was dented in numerous spots. Clivo had spent hours picturing the battles Bernie must have been in, fighting his way fiercely through a throng of enemies with a broadsword. His dad had warned him not to touch it, but now his dad wasn’t around.
Clivo reached up and lifted the visor on Bernie’s helmet, the armor moving surprisingly easily on its hinges. He gasped as he saw a brass skeleton key dangling from a string with a note attached. With trembling hands he untied the string and unfolded the note, immediately recognizing his dad’s handwriting:
ONE COUNTRY, ABOVE ALL, HOLDS THE KEY TO MY HEART.
ONE TURN IS ALL YOU GET; FIND THE DIFFERENCE.
Clivo’s stomach flipped with excitement, then dropped in confusion. What was that supposed to mean? It was obviously a clue about what the key opened, but Clivo had no idea what it meant. What country had held the key to his father’s heart?
He glanced around the room, noticing several locked chests and cupboards. He could simply try the key on all of them, but according to the note he only got one turn. One turn at what?
Clivo forced himself to calm down and think. What country had held the key to his father’s heart? Clivo went over all their conversations, trying to remember if his dad had talked more about one country than another.
He began wandering aimlessly around the house, lost in thought. At one point he glanced up and noticed a photo of his mom on the wall. She was standing on a ski slope, her joyful face smiling as she held her arms out wide to the snow-covered peaks stretching behind her, her blond curls peeking out from under her woolen hat.
Bingo.
His mom had been born in Brunei to hippie parents who’d thought that being born in a rain forest would bless their daughter with special powers. Clivo wasn’t sure about that, but she had definitely held a special power over his dad, because Russell had adored her. Brunei must have been the country that held the key to his father’s heart, because that’s where Clivo’s mom was from.
Clivo whirled around the room, trying to remember the artifact his dad had brought back from his trip to Brunei. But nothing rang a bell.
Then he remembered the attic.
He raced up the steps covered in a worn carpet from Turkey and pulled a rope that opened
a ceiling hatch. A rickety ladder slid down and he eagerly scrambled up it.
The attic was dark and dusty and stuffed with souvenirs and trinkets that didn’t fit in the rest of the house. It was like the closet in a museum, a place where forgotten treasures languished in the dark. Clivo lifted the plastic sheets draped over various sculptures and pottery, but there was nothing that required a key to be opened.
He walked along the floor, which creaked with each step, beginning to wonder if he was totally on the wrong path. Then he saw what he was looking for, and everything made perfect sense.
Clivo hurried to a far corner and knelt by a large chest, which his father had brought back from Brunei. It was made of sturdy wood and covered in studded brown leather. He examined the trunk and furrowed his brow in disappointment. Instead of one lock to open the top, the trunk was covered with at least a dozen locks that opened various drawers and compartments of all different sizes.
Wedged under the chest was a weathered piece of parchment that Clivo delicately pulled out, the elegant script barely visible in the late-afternoon light filtering through the small attic window.
The Chest of Dreams
Hide your items of importance here. But be warned. The key opens one lock, and one lock alone. If the wrong choice is made, liquid vials will mix and dissolve the contents in a puff of smoke. The smoke is harmless when breathed in, but it will send you into a deep sleep, where dreams of your evil plundering will haunt you for ages to come. Choose wisely.
Clivo shuddered, both at the idea of losing whatever contents were inside and at the idea of being haunted in his dreams.
He held the key up to all the different locks, wondering which one it fit into, but all the keyholes appeared to be the same size. He scrubbed his fingers through his hair in frustration. How was he supposed to know which lock was the right one?
“One turn is all you get; find the difference.”
Clivo again ran his hands over the tough leather, his fingers tracing the decorated brass locks tarnished with age. Then he spied something else. Engraved on each lock was a symbol, barely visible in the low light.
