The Slippery Map

by N. E. Bode

  Oyster knew that it was around the time of morning prayers. He imagined the nuns in the chapel. Were some of them so very happy that he was gone that their prayers were of thanksgiving? Oyster knew that Sister Mary Many Pockets’s prayers wouldn’t be. She would want him back, wouldn’t she? She was worrying. He was sure of it. He could feel her heart talking to his heart about grief and worry.

  He put the silver bucket to the nunnery on the Map. The Map widened to include the nunnery kitchen, the pantry, the back stairs to the bedrooms. Oyster led the bucket to the chapel. What would happen if he opened up just the smallest portal through the Map? Maybe he could speak through the Gulf of Wind and Darkness. He wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do or not. But he needed to practice, didn’t he?

  Oyster used the edge of the bucket like Hopps had taught him, cutting a small slit in the Map. It let out a gust of air. Maybe Sister Mary Many Pockets would be there. Maybe he would be able to tell her that he was okay.

  He leaned his head over the gusty hole and shouted, “Hello! It’s me! Oyster! I’m okay, Sister Mary Many Pockets! I’m doing fine! Don’t worry!” He paused to listen for some sound to come back—a sneeze, a harumph, a screech. For a moment, there was silence, and then he heard something: a low sound and high sounds all at the same time. Some awful music? Was it the old organ that sat in the chapel’s dusty corner? Oyster listened as the notes got faster—highs and lows all at the same time. It was the chapel organ; there was no mistaking its loud old wheeze.

  The noises woke up Leatherbelly, who started to howl mournfully. This startled the Iglits, who squawked and batted around Oyster’s head.

  “I’m okay!” Oyster shouted again into the hole, though he didn’t sound as sure as he had the first time. “Sister Mary Many Pockets! Are you there? Don’t worry! Don’t be swallowed up in sorrow!”

  As he spoke, the hole grew wider and gustier. When Oyster reared up, afraid he might fall into the darkness again, he saw he was no longer holding a small string. It had thickened into a rope, and the silver bucket was full-size. The organ was playing only one low, mangled chord. It wouldn’t let the chord go. The bucket rolled across the floor, as if it had a mind of its own and knew just what to do. It rolled toward the hole. But Oyster couldn’t lose the bucket down the hole. He couldn’t! He got up and yanked the rope as hard as he could, making the bucket pop up, fly across Ringet’s apartment, and skid along the floor.

  He raced to the Map and rolled it up as quickly as he could. This muffled the hole, and it sealed. The wind stopped. Oyster shoved the Slippery Map into the leather bag, sat back on his heels, and sighed. He was breathless, his heart charged and racing.

  Did she hear me? Oyster wondered.

  Leatherbelly hopped off the sofa and licked Oyster’s nose while the Iglits lighted down, staring at Oyster, cocking their bright blue heads.

  CHAPTER 10½

  A BRIEF INTERRUPTION…

  Maybe you’re wondering what was happening on the other side of the Gulf of Wind and Darkness, specifically in the nunnery chapel that morning.

  It was full, as you know. And Oyster was wrong. It wasn’t just Sister Mary Many Pockets who wanted him back. All of the nuns did. They were all praying for divine inspiration when the little lids that sat on top of the organ’s pipes burst up with cold air.

  When Sister Mary Many Pockets heard Oyster’s voice, she ran to the organ and climbed on its keyboard to look for Oyster inside the pipes. Her rubber-soled shoes made a racket on the keys. The other nuns followed and helped her keep her balance. When Sister Mary Many Pockets grabbed the pipe with the most wind blasting from it, the pipe grew wide. She pulled on it and it opened up some more, the organ straining loudly, its notes holding and holding and holding while the nuns supported Sister Mary Many Pockets. She motioned to the nuns: Higher! They made a small pyramid by balancing on the organ bench and keyboard and boosted her up. She pulled the pipe’s mouth as wide as it would go and then, with a final hoist from the nuns, she dived in.

  Without the silver bucket, without anything to guide her except her love of Oyster R. Motel and a lot of faith, Sister Mary Many Pockets glided and fell and floated through windy darkness.

  CHAPTER 11

  GROWSELS AND DOGGERS

  Oyster and Leatherbelly headed out into the snowlike powder. It was warm, but Oyster still found himself hunching his shoulders as if it were winter. Leatherbelly kept snorting the powdered sugar out of his nose in gruff little grunts, but he liked to stop and lick it, too.

  “C’mon, Leatherbelly,” Oyster told him. “We’ve got to keep moving.”

  Oyster walked with his head down so the Goggles would mainly see the flat cap that he’d secured by tying it under his chin. The streets were mostly empty except for a few people on bicycles, a row of schoolchildren, a crew of workers wearing gray Orwise Suspar and Sons Refinery uniforms sweeping powder into large cans. One time, a shopkeeper peered out of The Repair Shop, stared at Oyster, and put his finger to his nose. Oyster was a little startled. He put his finger to his nose too. The shopkeeper smiled and disappeared from behind the glass.

  Goggles sat at nearly every intersection. The powder collected on their warty backs and flat heads. They gave small, leaping shivers to shake off the powder but always kept their eyes on the streets. Oyster was afraid of them but tried not to be. He didn’t want them to sense his fear. They always seemed most interested in Leatherbelly. They watched him trot by, but they seemed to be a little afraid of him and always let him pass.

  Oyster was scared that they’d sense the Slippery Map, though he didn’t think they had the ability to do that. Frog brains, he reminded himself. If attacked, would he be able to get to the menthol-flavored figs? Would he be able to get the Goggles to eat them? Would they actually make the Goggles listless and dull, or did they only work on children?

  As he wheeled the leather bag behind him over the bumpy streets, he felt like he was dragging two Worlds with him, not just drawn on a map, but the Worlds themselves and the Gulf of Wind and Darkness between them. He felt like he was hauling everything he knew: Sister Mary Many Pockets in the nunnery and his parents’ childhood in University Housing and the Perths’ whole existence. It was tiring.

  He was relieved when the roads tilted downhill toward the Valley of Lawless Beasts. The powder wasn’t snowing as heavily now that they were farther from the refinery. There were fewer Perths and Goggles, too. Hopps had been right: Oyster could hear whining in front of him. He knew that it must be the Growsels, but he didn’t know what Growsels were.

  The sidewalk ended in a brittle patch of cement that led to grass and a bank of trees, and the leather bag got harder to maneuver. It pitched over, but Leatherbelly was there, and he helped nose it upright. This surprised Oyster. Leatherbelly hadn’t ever been helpful before.

  “Thanks,” Oyster said.

  Leatherbelly looked at him shyly, and they went on.

  They followed a worn path and came to the hollowed-out tree where Flan hid food for her brother and the Doggers. Oyster leaned against the tree to look into the pockets of its roots. They were empty. Before he had a chance to step back, the tree began to vibrate with whining. There was a bumping noise inside the trunk so loud that it made the leaves shudder. Oyster yanked on the bag, stepping away as fast as he could. Leatherbelly dodged behind Oyster’s legs.

  Then burrowing up from the roots of the tree came a thick snout with white tusks—a Growsel, judging by its whine—but it wasn’t alone. Holding on to each tusk was a very small, pale, grimy hand. Oyster hid behind a tree, pushing Leatherbelly behind him with one foot. He watched the Growsel work at the dirt and waited for everything to emerge. The Growsel’s paws seemed to be making the noise. They were churning the dirt like the rototiller that Sister Theresa Raised on a Farm had once used in the nunnery’s back lot.

  The Growsel finally popped out of the tree. It had a shiny black coat. On its back sat a very small Perth who wouldn’t stand taller than Oyster’s kn
ee. He had furry cheeks and a bare chin, but he wasn’t wearing a cape and hat. He wore dirty trousers, patched at the knees, and a work shirt. He was between the size of a Perth and the size of the Wingers Hopps had described. But there was nothing delicate about this Dogger as there had been with the Wingers. He was wiry and lean. Oyster was afraid of him. He rolled to the other side of the tree, then stood as silently as he could.

  The Growsel in front of the tree had stopped pawing, but there had to be thousands more burrowing and whining. The ground was alive with them.

  “I know you’re there,” the small Perth said in a rough voice. “Have you stolen something? Are you here to cheat us? Did you think you could just show up and no one would be the wiser?”

  Oyster didn’t say anything. He didn’t move. He could barely breathe. He didn’t like being called a thief, because he was sure that it was true. He’d stolen his map, and the deed still weighed on him.

  “Come on out,” the small Perth said. “Or would you rather I drag you out into the light?”

  Oyster peeked from behind the tree. The small Perth had gotten off of the Growsel’s back but still held on to one of its tusks.

  “Full view,” the little Perth said. “Hands on your head too, so I can see ’em.”

  Oyster put his hands on his cap and stepped out from behind the tree, leaving Leatherbelly and the bag behind.

  “And the other one! I smell two of yous.”

  Leatherbelly gave a sad whine and then tiptoed out.

  “Humph,” said the little Perth, looking Oyster over first. “You’re no Perth,” he said. Then he stared at Leatherbelly. “What’s this?” He walked up a little closer and sniffed in the dachshund’s direction. “You two aren’t from here,” the little Perth said.

  “We belong here, anyway,” Oyster said. This land was his parents’ creation. That should count for something.

  “Doggers know who belongs and who doesn’t.”

  “You’re a Dogger?” Oyster asked.

  “Proudly, yes.” He stiffened up, jutting out his bare chin. “A true fighter. Determined to take back what’s ours.”

  “I know Flan Horslip,” Oyster said, trying to sound casual. “I saved her life.”

  “Flan Horslip? You say you saved her?” The Dogger looked suspicious.

  “I saved her from a group of Goggles that had surrounded her,” Oyster explained.

  “Call those things you got Goggles? Vicious Goggles here will eat your Goggles like a box of fat chocolate figs. Here, you’ve got to be ten times smarter and faster and stronger.” He paused and eyeballed Oyster. “No one comes here without a reason. And I don’t know if your reason is friendly or foul.”

  “I think it’s friendly,” Oyster said. “I just want to see Ippy.”

  “Ippy? Ha! You’re kidding. You know Ippy? You don’t seem like her type—hiding behind a tree! Do you think she’d hide like that? Never!”

  Oyster was pretty sure that the Dogger was right. What was he doing here, hiding already? The Growsel started digging nervously, churning up dirt, but the Dogger tapped his backside and he stopped.

  “I don’t know; I’ve never met her,” Oyster said, again trying to sound braver than he felt. “Her parents and my parents were best friends. I need to see her, though. I’ve got important, very dangerous work to do. I’ve got Perths to save and my parents to free from jail.”

  The Dogger hesitated. “You’re saying that you are the boy?”

  Oyster nodded, staring the Dogger in the eye.

  “You’re going to free your parents?”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Oyster said.

  “Do you even know how to find Ippy?”

  That gave Oyster pause. “No, not really.”

  “You can’t go it alone,” the Dogger said. “Look at you!”

  Oyster glanced down and looked at himself. He took his hands off of his head and brushed dirt from his cape. “I just have to do the best I can.”

  “You’re the boy? Really?”

  Oyster nodded again.

  “And Ippy is going to help you?”

  “I think so,” Oyster said. “Her parents and my parents—”

  “I know, I know; they were friends. You’ve been over that.”

  The Dogger glared at Oyster, sharp and mean, examining him. “How’d you break your tooth?” the Dogger asked.

  “Too awful a story to tell,” Oyster said, shaking his head. “Bad times.”

  This made something in the Dogger break open. “I know what you mean,” he said, showing Oyster a set of scars: one on his eyebrow, one on a thumb, one on his elbow. “C’mon. I’ll lead you to Ippy. Follow me,” he said.

  The Dogger climbed back on the Growsel. Oyster grabbed his leather bag, and he and Leatherbelly followed through the woods. At first there was a soft, hushed distant whisper of breath, but as it grew louder and louder, Oyster knew where they were headed—the Breathing River—and he felt sure that there was no turning back now.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE BREATHING RIVER

  At first the Breathing River sounded only like breaths, thousands of them, rising like bubbles and sighing on the surface. But as Oyster and Leatherbelly followed the Dogger through the woods, the river grew louder, until it drowned out the collective whine of the Growsels underground. And it sounded like the nunnery at night when Oyster would walk down the hall to the bathroom. Some of the nuns snored with puffs, others with rattles, others still with whinnies. In fact, he almost recognized the wheezy snore of Sister Elouise of the Occasional Cigarette, and then the baritone of Sister Augusta of the Elaborate Belches, and then, just softly, just once, the puff of Sister Mary Many Pockets.

  “Do you hear that?” Oyster asked.

  “It’s different,” the Dogger said. “It’s never quite sounded like that before—more like snoring, isn’t it?”

  “Strange,” Oyster said. “I think I recognize some of those snores.”

  The Dogger looked at Oyster for a moment out of the corner of his eye.

  “What?” Oyster asked.

  “Nothing,” the Dogger said.

  Oyster didn’t understand it, but it seemed like his World was here somehow, in those snores. Finally, when the river came into view—a rough, winding, gray river—the noise had risen to a roar. The Growsel stopped at the reedy bank. The Dogger climbed off the back of his Growsel and walked to the edge. He stuck his hand in the water.

  Oyster and Leatherbelly hung back, neither wanting to get too close. The Breathing River was fast. Bubbles stirred up and snapped by Oyster’s ears: an angry cough, a few sharp pants, another with a whistle, and a moan. Oyster didn’t like the river. It was rough, churning briskly over large, sharp rocks. He could see three Water Snakes from where he stood.

  “I’ve got no boat. Only way’s to swim. You aren’t afraid of snakes, are you?” the Dogger asked with an edge to his tone.

  Oyster shook his head. “Nope,” he said, although he’d never seen a snake. They didn’t show up in downtown Baltimore. He didn’t like the looks of the Water Snakes he did see. But he was still trying to fake some kind of confidence, just a little.

  The Growsel nosed up behind Leatherbelly, gave a low growl and a snap. Leatherbelly skidded forward and almost fell into the water. The Growsel snapped again, and Leatherbelly had no choice. He plummeted into the river. He paddled madly. Luckily, it turned out that he was very buoyant because of his paunch. He bobbed along more than he swam. The Growsel was next, his hooves spinning.

  Oyster stood there. He didn’t want to tell the Dogger he couldn’t swim, but he knew that swimming was something he couldn’t fake. And even if he could swim, what would happen to the Slippery Map if it got wet?

  The Dogger walked into the water, pushing his way in with his tough, muscled frame. He looked back over his shoulder. “What are you waiting for?”

  Oyster looked upriver and down, hoping for a bridge, but there was none. Then he looked overhead. The trees were tall and thick, and strung wit
h mossy vines. Oyster jumped up and grabbed hold of one of the vines. It was strong. It held.

  “Hurry up!” the Dogger yelled, swimming through the current. “Don’t have all day!”

  Oyster had a plan. He shouted back, “I’d prefer to stay dry.”

  “Not possible,” the Dogger said. “If it were possible, I’d a-figured it out by now! No time for that!”

  Oyster saw two vines that lined up pretty nicely. It would be like pulling the bell in the nunnery bell tower, except he’d be riding one from one church bell rope to another.

  The Dogger was nearly to the other side. “You’re wasting time!”

  Oyster buckled the leather bag to his belt, climbed a tree, scooted out on a limb, picked up a vine, and pulled it closer to the trunk. He then shinnied to the underside of the limb and let go. He soared out across the Breathing River, caught the other vine, released the first, and swung through the air. He could see the Dogger pulling himself onto the bank, the Growsel already there. Both sets of eyes were on Oyster, watching him glide. Oyster rode over the far shore until he dropped, landing right in front of the Dogger and his Growsel.

  The Dogger staggered backward a bit. “How did you do that?” he asked.

  “I have some skills,” Oyster said. This surprised him. He didn’t think he had any. “From back where I come from.”

  Just then there was thrashing in the water: Leatherbelly paddling fiercely, his head dipping under and then appearing again and then disappearing.

  “Leatherbelly!” Oyster called out.

  “Too bad about your beast, though. Don’t see him.” He patted his Growsel. “They don’t always make it.”

  Oyster felt a rise of panic. He hadn’t known that he needed Leatherbelly until this moment. He ripped off his shoes, set down the Map, and ran into the water. It was cold. “Leatherbelly!” he called again, not sure which way to try to swim to reach him.