Jicky Jack and the Ominous Promise

by C. D. Bryan

  “Oh no, not me,” said Thomas. “I’m not going out there.”

  “It’ll be ok, Thomas,” said J.R. “Trust me.”

  The three of them took one step together, then two, onto the platform. The air outside of the elevator shaft whipped and raced all around them. Pip fell off balance and grabbed one of the rails and J.R. grabbed her arm. Then the elevator door closed behind them, and as quickly as it brought them to their stop, it was gone.

  “Now what’re we supposed to do?” said Pip, looking down from the platform suspended in midair. Thomas bent over the rail and peered into the cavern below them. His posture melted to the floor where he froze.

  “I think forty-five may have been a bad decision too, J.R.,” whined Thomas.

  But to everyone’s surprise the platform began to levitate towards the wall, which was lined with tubes that snaked and weaved, all the way up the cavern.

  “Are we in store for another decision, J.R.?” asked Pip, sounding as though she were trying to prepare herself for the possibility of something else going wrong.

  “Nope,” J.R. reassured her. “This one looks like a one-way ticket, see.” J.R. pointed at a bullet-shaped pod inside the glass escalator tube. “Can’t go wrong with that.”

  The glass wall of the tube opened. Pip and J.R. stepped over a six-inch gap between the platform and the tube containing the bullet-shaped pod.

  “Come on, Thomas. You can do it. Hurry,” said Pip.

  Thomas raised himself to his hands and knees and crawled toward the tube but the platform began moving in the opposite direction. J.R. reached out and grabbed him by the arm and pulled. Thomas pushed forward, landing half-in and half-out of the pod, his legs dangled over the cavern.

  “Help me? Pull me in, pull me in,” begged Thomas.

  Pip and J.R. grabbed Thomas by his pants and jerked him inside, and just in time. Preston’s elevator was stopping on level forty-five, too. Pip and J.R. sat down in front of a small glass control panel and fastened their seat belts. The panel had three buttons on it . . . one blue, one pink, and one yellow. Thomas fell into place last and buckled up just the same. The door to the pod closed as Preston and the pangolin stepped out onto the platform.

  “Timble, I’m right behind you. Don’t make another wrong decision now.”

  Pip looked at J.R. as if they were holding a silent visual conference for a few seconds.

  “I’ve made a decision,” whispered J.R.

  “Yeah, ok, what is it?” she said, waiting desperately.

  “I want you or Thomas to choose the button, OK?”

  “Are you sure?” said Pip squinting at him.

  “Yes. Preston is second-guessing me. Somehow he knows what I’ll choose.”

  “I’m not doing it,” said Thomas. “I’m not going to be responsible for the death of us all.”

  “Ok. I’ll do it,” said Pip. She lifted her index finger and started for the pink button then stopped. “No, that’s not it. I’m a girl. It would be expected that I would choose the pink one. So I’ll choose the blue one, but that would be expected too, if I were avoiding the pink. And it would also be anticipated that I would then go to the yellow to avoid either pink or blue, but in doing so I would feel like I could trick everyone and just go back to the pink.”

  “Oh my gosh, please just make a decision,” said Thomas, “you’re killing me.”

  “All right, here goes,” she declared, pushing all three at once.

  Thomas and J.R. looked at each other in shock.

  “Why’d you do that?” they both cried in unison.

  “Because it felt right, I couldn’t decide on just one.”

  “Girls,” said Thomas. “I think I’m finally starting to get what my dad means.”

  The escalator pod jerked them back into their seats and zipped into motion, seemingly with a bit of attitude.

  Preston climbed into an escalator pod on the opposite side and it too zipped off.

  “When does it stop?” uttered Thomas, as they snaked up and around the system of tubes.

  “I don’t know but look,” said J.R. straining his eyes to see. “It’s Preston. I think his pod is gonna hit us. Hold on.”

  The three of them shielded their faces, and at the last second their pod twisted upside down and aborted its path, diverting to a new tube. Preston’s pod zoomed by, taking its own detour, which was a nonstop spiral, all the way down.

  “I guess Preston made the wrong decision,” said J.R. contently as he sat back in his seat raising his hands and arms behind himself to rest his head.

  The three of them laughed and tried to relax, but flinched and shielded their faces suddenly as a giant splash of water hit the pod and ran down its sides.

  “What the heck?” bellowed Thomas, as the pod jerked to a complete stop—its top opening with a hiss of escaping air. “Holy-geezum-harp-toads.”

  The three of them remained seated in the pod, which was now miraculously floating inside what could only best be described as a hugely oversized bathtub—big enough for a horse.

  “Where are we?” asked Pip.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  First Meetings are Fleeting

  J.R. peeked over the edge of the pod to see if the water was real. Somehow he expected otherwise. He looked around at the redwood rim of whatever it was the pod was floating in, and as he looked up it dawned on him. “We’re in a giant wooden bath tub, look.” He pointed to a giant shower head above them.

  “What?” said Thomas in confusion, looking up—his forehead wrinkled.

  “I don’t understand,” said Pip, pressing all three buttons on the control panel again.

  The three of them sat in the pod waiting for one or the other of them to say something—anything. But there seemed to be no good explanation as to where they were, how they came to be there, or why they were there.

  “I just want to go on record,” said Thomas, “as saying I don’t think pressing all three buttons at once was such a good idea, Pip.”

  “Thanks, Thomas,” said Pip rolling her eyes.

  J.R. stuck his finger in the water and swirled it about, and the water instantly turned dark red. An just as instantly he retracted his hand. “Um . . . Excuse me,” he said, unbuckling his seatbelt and standing up in the pod causing it to rock. “I’m getting out of this thing.”

  “Now there’s a great idea,” agreed Thomas, following J.R. when he saw the water change color.

  The three of them sat on the edge of the tub watching the water as it began draining in the slurking and sucking fashion that only bathwater can drain. As it did, the body of the yellow escalator pod began to shrink. In as little as a minute the water and the escalator pod were completely gone—sucked down the drain—and the wooden tub was completely dry.

  “Whew . . . Good thing we got out of there,” said Thomas thankfully. “No telling where that water’s going.”

  “Yeah, you can say that again,” replied J.R. as the three of them jumped down. “Ok, so we’ve made our decisions. Let’s see where they’ve brought us. Who wants to be the first to open the door?”

  Both Pip and Thomas glanced at each other pointed their fingers at J.R. “You do,” they answered in unison.

  “Ok, but first . . .” said J.R., slipping off his backpack and pulling out the journal. “I wonder if there’s anything new in here?” He leafed through the pages. “Nothing. Well, it was worth a try.” He shrugged and reached behind himself, turning the doorknob, and pulling the door open without even bothering to look. “Let’s find a way out of here.”

  Suddenly, Pip and Thomas stepped back toward the tub.

  J.R. saw a look of surprise spring from their eyes. “What?” he asked.

  However, when J.R. heard the sound of clip-clopping on a wooden floor behind him, he understood. His heart jumped into his throat. He swallowed hard and slowly turned around, coming face to snout with a brilliant white horse just outside the door. Its nostrils flared. Then it neighed and snorted. J.R. felt his chest
tighten. Sitting atop its back was a seriously straight-faced man. J.R. wasn’t sure, without a closer look, if it was an Asian man with a Fu Manchu mustache posing as a Native American, or a Native American pretending to be an Asian man dressed in Native American clothes. Either way he was wearing a full Indian headdress and his face was covered with red and white paint. His eyes didn’t blink a wink, nor did any other part of him move.

  J.R. smiled ever so briefly as he slowly reached for the door and slammed it with the flick of a wrist before turning in a panic. Pip and J.R. exchanged glances while Thomas was busy pulling himself to the top of the wooden tub.

  “Maybe going down the drain wouldn’t have been so bad after all,” said Thomas.

  A knock came at the door.

  “What do we do?” J.R. whispered desperately.

  “I don’t know,” answered Pip. “Open the door or ask who it is?”

  “I like the idea of asking who it is instead of opening the door,” proclaimed Thomas, looking back over his shoulder.

  “Ok, so . . . who is it,” whispered J.R. “That’s what we’ll go with.” He cleared his throat before yelling through the door. “Who is it, and what do you want?”

  Both Pip and Thomas cringed.

  “No, no, J.R.,” said Pip. “Not, what do you want? Just, who is it?”

  There was silence, then another knock.

  “Go ahead. Now,” said Pip, motioning with her hands.

  “Who is it?” asked J.R.

  “It’s the Sleeper . . . Who are you?” said a monotone voice through the door.

  J.R. backed away from the door, his mouth agape.

  “It can’t be,” said Pip. “Mr. Stipple is the only person I know who has ever heard the Sleeper talk.” She looked at J.R. “Go ahead. Ask him what he wants.”

  “Ah, Mr. Sleeper . . . sir . . . what do you want?”

  “To use my bathroom.”

  Just then, Pip smacked herself in the middle of her forehead with the butt of her hand. “If we’re in the Sleeper’s bathroom,” she said, swallowing hard, “then that means we’re in,” she hesitated, looking up at Thomas who hadn’t yet put two and two together. “Then that means we’re in the house on that corner.”

  Thomas dropped from the side of the tub. “Holy-geezum-harp-toads,” he said.

  “Holy-geezum-harp-toads,” repeated the Sleeper through the door.

  “How can we be in the Sleeper’s bathroom?” begged Thomas.

  “What do we do now?” said Pip looking to J.R.

  “I guess we let him use it since it’s his,” answered J.R.

  “You mean open the door?” said Pip reluctantly.

  “We opened it once and everything was fine,” said J.R. “Why not again?”

  “Well, for starters,” answered Pip “he’s wearing paint on his face and sitting on a horse like he‘s going into battle.”

  “Well, maybe he just came back from a costume party,” said J.R.

  “I don’t think so,” said Thomas, who was looking at the photocopy of the article from the library. “I thought I’d seen him before. Look, it’s him with the chest, standing next to that Collector guy.”

  J.R. and Pip huddled around Thomas, and sure enough the man outside the bathroom door resembled the man in the photo.

  “All right, here it goes,” said J.R., rushing to the door and jerking it open.

  The three of them were silent, and for good reason, because the Sleeper was gone and in his place was a wall of water. It filled the entire doorframe and formed a perfectly straight sheet of liquid, defying all the laws of gravity. Thomas and Pip shuffled their feet slowly toward J.R. and the water. Pip had her knuckles wrapped into the back of Thomas’ shirt.

  J.R pushed his finger into the wall of water.

  “No, J.R., don’t,” said Thomas. “What if you pop it? It’ll flood the bathroom and we’ll all die.”

  “Thomas, if it was going to flood the bathroom,” whispered J.R., looking back with a smile, “it would’ve rushed in when I opened the door.”

  “Oh yeah,” Thomas said.

  J.R. pushed his finger and hand in up to his wrist. He could feel the cold water rushing through his fingers. “Wow, it’s real.”

  “Ok, can you please close the door now?” said Pip. “It’s making me berry nervous. I think it’s safe to say we’re definitely in another dimension.”

  J.R. did as she requested.

  “No . . . you know what?” said Thomas, grabbing the door handle and holding the door open. “This is enough for me I’m finding a way out of here.”

  “And how do you propose to do that?” asked Pip. “Walk out the door?”

  “Well . . . swim, I guess,” answered Thomas, opening the door. “I can hold my breath for almost one minute. There has to be a way out of here.”

  And before J.R. or Pip could talk him out of it, Thomas stepped back, took a running jump and dove in the direction of the water, which disappeared.

  Thomas hit the floor.

  Hard.

  Pip and J.R. rushed through the doorway, into what was now a hall, helping Thomas to his feet.

  “What happened?” asked Thomas, dazed and rubbing his forehead. “Where’d the water go? I saw it. It was there. You saw it, right?”

  J.R. and Pip nodded in agreement as the three of them looked around, only to find the hall, the bathroom door, and the floor they were standing on, all changing right before their eyes.

  “What’s happening,” said Pip, grabbing onto J.R.’s arm as the scenery filled in around them like paint running down a canvas.

  “I don’t know,” said J.R. “nobody move.”

  When the transformation seemed complete, they found themselves standing in the middle of the wilderness—birds in flight and song, and grass beneath their feet. Everything around them was real—the ground, the bushes, the trees, the animals, the sky—everything. And without warning, as was becoming commonplace, the ground directly in front of them then peeled up like a giant piece of paper, changed colors, did a few origami moves and flipped back down, leaving behind a white rawhide-covered tepee.

  “Not the Indian thing again,” said Thomas, his posture shrinking.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Blue-Water is Not a Liquid

  J.R., Thomas and Pip watched as a thin stream of smoke curled into the sky from the other side of the tepee. They looked at one another, afraid to move, afraid to speak. However, Pip broke the silence.

  “Oh, look it’s a butler,” said Pip as a man dressed in a black suit, white shirt and a black bow tie brushed past them with his chin tilted high and a silver tray crested over his right shoulder.

  J.R. and Thomas looked at each other in complete surprise

  “Excuse me, sir,” said Pip, “would you mind showing us in what direction we can find the way back home, please? Thank you berry much.” The man continued in his haste and walked behind the tepee and out of sight without saying a word. “Well . . . that was a berry rude thing for a butler to do.”

  “Who says I’m a butler?” asked a man’s voice from behind the tepee.

  “Oh great, Pip,” whispered Thomas. “You insulted the guy.”

  “Enough of all this, please, come sit with me,” the voice requested.

  J.R. cautiously led the way with Pip in the middle and Thomas close behind. They rounded the tepee. But to everyone’s surprise, the butler was gone and they found themselves standing in the company of a completely different looking man. J.R. stood on point, with Pip to his right and Thomas to his left. The campfire glowed with red and orange embers, and some kind of meat hung over it on a mechanical rotisserie. J.R. did a double take when he saw the rotisserie turning on its own.

  “Please sit,” said the man, turning away for a moment. “Choose a spot and rest. I’ll be right with you. Oh, and Thomas, how’s your head? And Pip, how’s that ankle doing from the creek?”

  Pip and Thomas exchanged looks of shock but neither of them said a word.

  J.R
. chose to stay standing and waited to see the man face to face, his palms clammy with sweat and his legs trembling.

  When the man tuned back J.R. noticed his Fu Manchu mustache and unavoidably—two falcons on the man’s arms. He quickly concluded the man’s appearance was Asian, and the same guy who had been wearing face paint and a Native American headdress. But now he was very ordinarily dressed, in loose fitting blue jeans, a long ivory-colored tunic, and a maroon cloth belt around his waist. And he had long gray hair neatly braided into a single ponytail, and was barefoot.

  “I believe these little fellas belong to the three of you,” said the Asian man referring to the Peregrine Falcon standing on each of his forearms. He gently tossed the birds into the air. One flapped its way to a rock near J.R., and the other flapped its way to a tree branch near Pip and Thomas.

  “Where did you find them?” asked J.R., warmed by the reunion and remembering that the last time he saw Jicky-Jack was in the valley, which seemed like days ago even though his watch indicated it had only been hours.

  “They’ve been here awhile,” answered the Asian man. “Now, let’s get down to business.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” said Thomas, “but what happened to your Indian stuff?”

  “Nothing,” said the Asian man, smiling, “I just changed. I thought it would be more receptive to be who I really am for our first real meeting.”

  “Oh,” said Thomas.

  “Now,” said the Asian man, “why don’t we start with the basics about me since I know everything there is to know about each of you, especially you, J.R. Timble.”

  The idea that he knew all there was to know about each of them seemed a bit preposterous and a little chancy to J.R., but he didn’t ask any questions. He just listened.

  “The three of you probably know me as the Sleeper. That seems to be the nickname the town has given me over the years. My real name is Shen. I am Chinese but my adopted Native American tribal name is Minion Blue-Water. You may, from today forward, call me Minion.” He smiled gently. “ I came here in 1850 during the gold rush. I saw my journey in a vision from the Great Spirit. But I didn’t come for the gold I came for the children.” He glanced at J.R. “And even though I didn’t fully understand why, I followed the signs because it felt right to do.”