The Slippery Map

by N. E. Bode

  “Keep an ear out for Spider Wolves,” he told Leatherbelly, and they marched on, following blue-lit tunnels, chewing the chocolate-covered figs.

  Without sunlight, it was hard to say how long they’d been walking. Hours had passed, Oyster knew that much. His legs were weak. He wanted to sit, just for a minute or two, but he didn’t. The blue-lit tunnels were muddy now. Water trickled down the cool tunnel walls. Oyster was afraid of the walls collapsing. What then? They would be buried and no one would ever know.

  It became too hard to pull the leather bag through the mud. The wheels got stuck. So Oyster picked it up once more and carried it. But this made it harder to ignore the Slippery Map shivering like it had a fever. What were Ringet and Hopps doing now? It had to be night. Their shift had to be over. Were they expecting to hear from him? Were they worried? Ringet seemed like a natural worrier.

  “We don’t need Ringet and Hopps’s help,” Oyster said to Leatherbelly. “But maybe we should just check in.”

  He opened the leather sack while walking. It was tricky, but they couldn’t stop. The Snapping Dirt Clams would get them. He didn’t unroll the Map. He exposed just the smallest sliver. He used the sharp edge of the bucket to make the smallest pinprick in the Map—just at Ringet’s sink, just as he’d been instructed.

  A thin plume of air escaped. “Hello!” he shouted; and just the thought of the two of them being out there, listening, this hope, pushed his emotions. He was wet and tired and homesick and lonesome and afraid and a bit lost. “Are you out there? Hello?”

  The Map gave a hefty thump from somewhere on the other side.

  Oyster rolled it up as quickly and tightly as he could, stooping for just a moment to shove it back in the bag.

  That was it. That was all he got to say. He felt a little like crying. What he needed was a rest. What he needed was just a nice bit of luck, for something to go his way.

  But the shaking had gotten worse. The leather bag bounced around in his arms. He felt like he wasn’t holding the bag as much as wrestling it. It wasn’t fair that he had to be in this mess to save his parents. Shouldn’t they be saving me? Oyster thought. Isn’t that what parents do? That’s what Sister Mary Many Pockets had done all those years ago, picking a baby out of a box on a stoop and talking to him from her heart.

  That’s when he felt it again: a small voice in his heart. But this time it wasn’t Sister Mary Many Pockets. He could have sworn it was Ippy, saying Feel lucky, Oyster! He looked around, but she was nowhere to be found. He said, “I’m sorry, Ippy. I am.” He waited to feel her heart-voice again, but there was nothing. Did Ippy take apologies well? He doubted it.

  His shoes were wet. The Map was kicking. Leatherbelly was whining. The Dirt Clams were clicking on the edges of the path. He trudged onward. Eventually the tunnel grew wider. Oyster followed as it opened into an underground meadow, and that’s the moment things seemed to start to go his way.

  It was beautiful. Oyster had never seen anything like it. The meadow was lit by a cluster of holes overhead. Weak sunlight slipped down. Plush and green and wide, the meadow was dotted with red ferns and an abundance of flowers that Oyster had never seen before: some with green stalks with buds like fat, pink baby fists; others with blue petals ringing a wet, black center; and, Oyster’s favorite, a bush of red clustered berries pursed like lips. This bush reminded him of the nuns—their quiet mouths in the chapel tightened in wordless prayer.

  Leatherbelly, exhausted, plopped down on a grassy patch. There was a bench, and Oyster figured that it would be safe to sit on it. Who would put a bench in a meadow if it attracted only Snapping Dirt Clams?

  Oyster set down the leather bag with its kicking Map at his feet and sighed deeply. He was so tired. He quickly put his feet up on the bench and lay down. He was sure that he could smell the sun, and this was a great comfort. Leatherbelly kicked his feet out on the grass and closed his poppy eyes.

  Oyster was nearly asleep when he heard whispering. He opened his eyes, and there were eyes staring back at him. The black, wet centers of the blue flowers faced him. They stared and blinked and stared like the cold, furious eyes of Mrs. Fishback. Oyster wasn’t sure if he was seeing clearly. “Leatherbelly!” he said nervously.

  Leatherbelly whined. He was pinned down by the pink baby fists of the flowers on the long green stalks. They had him by the scruff, his collar, his tail, and his paws. He let out a sad moan.

  Oyster grabbed his leather bag and held it to his chest.

  That’s when the whispers rose up. “We don’t like children!” they chimed. “Wouldn’t it be awful if you disappeared!”

  Oyster turned and saw the berries speaking to him. These weren’t the lips of the nuns. No, these were menacing lips—speaking from Mrs. Fishback’s mouth, a ring of lipstick. They hissed on, “A rotten boy! A stupid boy! Let’s throw him out on his ear!” He hadn’t been sure about the black eyes, but Mrs. Fishback’s voice was unmistakable. Was his imagination influencing his parents’ Imagined World? How was it possible? He didn’t even have much of an imagination.

  There was a loud thud overhead. The flowers trembled. The fists let go of Leatherbelly, and they all shrank away. There was another thud and another. “Footsteps,” Oyster said. “Dragons!”

  One of the sun holes grew dark. Oyster saw something glassy, shimmering gray hovering above it. It was a living thing that darted until it spotted Oyster and held steady. And this is when Oyster knew it was an eye—a large gray eye gazing down on him. A Dragon’s eye!

  Oyster grabbed Leatherbelly and the bag and ran. The eye disappeared and a flame shot into the meadow. And then another sun hole darkened. Another eye, this one closer. Again they ran. There were more footsteps overhead, more Dragons. A herd of Dragons? Was that possible? Did they travel in herds? Now all of the holes were filled with either eyes or fire.

  Oyster tried to find the tunnel that had led them here, but the ferns and flowers were so thick and high, he couldn’t. The berries were singing, “Rotten boy! Stupid boy!” And the pink baby fists had grown bigger, fatter, and thicker, with tough knuckles and nails—like Mrs. Fishback’s hands, he was sure of it. They snatched at Oyster and Leatherbelly and tried to hold them. Oyster pulled back one gnarled finger and then another until the hand popped loose. He stood up, clutched Leatherbelly tight, and kicked at the fists, finally yanking him free.

  They dodged one shot of fire after another. Oyster got on his knees and pulled Leatherbelly into a bed of flowers to hide, but the flowers bowed away to reveal them.

  The gray eyes were always there, the fire next. It was dark now and smoky. The only light came from the blasts of fire like lightning bolts. Oyster and Leatherbelly ran to the meadow’s edge, looking for an exit, but there was none. Oyster patted the dirt wall frantically.

  The Dragons drew closer. The cavern was hot and filled with smoke—it caught in their lungs and made it almost impossible to breathe. Oyster’s eyes were watering so badly he could barely see. Soon he was on his knees, coughing, gripping the bag tightly. He looked up and saw the gray eye of a Dragon staring straight down at him. He thought, This is it. Holding the leather bag with one arm and Leatherbelly with the other, he gave one last sharp roll to the right.

  The ground collapsed beneath them and they fell.

  Eventually they landed hard in a pit. Oyster could see only the dim shapes of a cluster of Goggles—but these Goggles had pointy yellow teeth and dense fur. His head was ringing. “Ippy?” he said. “Ippy, help!”

  There was a high laugh and then a smile appeared—a large, glittery smile like that on Dr. Fromler’s billboard—and then, before Oyster passed out, he heard: “Charming! The boy! Finally! At last!”

  CHAPTER 16

  THE WEST COAST OF BONELAND

  When Oyster jolted awake, he was sweaty. When had he fallen asleep? A pair of Vicious Goggles snarled on either side of him, and this alerted a Perth in a nearby lounge chair. The Perth was wearing swim trunks, a foil sun-reflector on his chest, and
a pair of blue sunglasses. He looked freshly broiled. Oyster found himself in a lounge chair too, poolside. The morning sun was pouring down.

  Oyster remembered a night of drifting in and out of consciousness. He knew he’d been transported in the dark over rough terrain. Occasionally he’d felt the knock of what seemed like a wheel hitting a rut, but then he would fade into dreams that he couldn’t remember.

  “He’s up!” the Perth said. “The boy’s up! Lovely!” He looked familiar to Oyster, but Oyster couldn’t place him. He smelled strong, a little like the wood polish used in the nunnery but fruitier. The Perth lifted his glass, empty except for a chewed lime. “Refresher!” he said, clapping his hands. “Refresher!”

  An elderly Perth, quite stooped, wearing a black suit, hopped out from a gazebo. He was carrying a silver pitcher on a tray. “Here you are, sir,” the old Perth said, filling the glass.

  “It’s the boy, Fraca,” the tan Perth said. “See him!” He pointed at Oyster.

  “I do, sir,” Fraca replied.

  “We’re so pleased!” the tan Perth said. “You’ll find we’re very civilized here—even to the enemy. Aren’t we, Fraca?”

  “We are,” Fraca said.

  Oyster was the enemy? Where were Leatherbelly and the Slippery Map? He reached up and patted the necklace with the silver bucket. It was still there, hidden under his T-shirt. A relief.

  He studied the Perth now. There was something familiar about his eyebrows. When he sipped his drink, they drew up in the middle with swelling emotion—as if his eyebrows belonged on the face of someone singing his heart out. And then the Perth pressed his hand to his pink chest and said, “I’m your host.” And in that moment Oyster knew exactly who he was. In unison, Oyster and the Perth said, “Vince Vance.”

  And just as in the show, an unseen band kicked up.

  “You know me?” Vince Vance shouted over the music. “I’m flattered!” But it was clear that Vince Vance fully expected everyone to know exactly who he was.

  Oyster also knew where he was: the West Coast of Boneland. It was the spot that Ringet had told Hopps to include on his makeshift map while trying to plot Oyster’s course to Dark Mouth. But Hopps had refused, saying there was no need, that Oyster wasn’t going to be taking the time to sun himself by a pool. Oyster would have liked to have seen this spot on the map now, to have his bearings. He knew that he was in the west, on a coast, but how far from Dark Mouth?

  He tried to look around casually for Leatherbelly and the Slippery Map. He couldn’t see either. The Vicious Goggles didn’t like his curiosity. They growled again.

  “Hush, boys!” Vince Vance said. The music had died down. “Hush now, sweeties.” Vince Vance patted one of the Vicious Goggles on the head, then turned to Oyster. “Is it that you’re looking for your pudgy little friend? And a certain personal item?”

  “Yes,” Oyster said. “Where are they?”

  Vince Vance said, “We’d like to make you an offer. This doesn’t have to be messy.”

  “Who is ‘we’?” Oyster asked.

  “Oh, well, I work for Dark Mouth. I’m a spokesperson!” Here he smiled brilliantly, and Oyster recalled Dr. Fromler’s glittery smile. “You, too, Oyster R. Motel, can have the good life I lead, that Dark Mouth has given me!” He spread his arms open wide, showing the sparkling pool water, the elderly butler, the enormous mansion. “Those Perths may have filled your head with nostalgic notions of things like…petals drifting down from giant flowers. That sort of business. Did they?”

  Oyster remembered Ringet telling him about the twenty-foot flowers that had once sat where the Torch was now, the petals covering the valley. He’d liked the sound of it. The flowers had been turned to bone. Oyster nodded.

  “There are better things than giant flower petals, Oyster.” Vince Vance clapped his hands, and Fraca appeared again. This time he was pushing a plush stroller on oversized wheels. The stroller was smothered in white frills and ribbon trim. Fraca pushed it to Oyster. Inside was Leatherbelly, freshly groomed. He smelled like peaches. His hair was blown into a pomp. He was lazily nibbling on a jerky strip.

  “Leatherbelly!” Oyster said. “What happened?”

  Leatherbelly smiled. His tail wagged joyfully, like a little bell ringing on his back side.

  “The beast is content,” Vince Vance explained. “He’s living the good life. Wouldn’t you like to live the good life?”

  “I don’t think so,” Oyster said, staring out across the pool. “I’ve got work to do.”

  “Dark Mouth knows the work you’re trying to get done. Your parents, blah, blah, saving the Perths, blah, blah. Defeating Dark Mouth, blah, blah. You haven’t been very kind, deciding to defeat someone you don’t know one factual thing about!” Oyster felt a little bad about this.

  “Listen, the Perths are using you. And, you see, Dark Mouth,” Vince Vance went on, “he just wants you to enjoy life, Oyster! There’s so much to enjoy. You need a tour!”

  Vince Vance was trying to catch Oyster’s eye, but Oyster kept his eyes on two large mahogany doors that seemed to lead into a tall mansion. The Perths weren’t using him. They needed him. But Vince Vance clapped his hands again. “Inside! Inside!”

  Two more elderly, stooped Perths filed out of the gazebo. Fraca pushed Leatherbelly in his floofy stroller, and the others tipped back the lounge chairs, which happened to be on wheels, and rolled Oyster and Vince Vance around the pool toward the mahogany doors. “Faster!” Vince Vance cried. “Faster!”

  The mansion was gigantic, and the elderly Perths pushed the lounge chairs at such a fast clip across the marble floors that a wind kicked up. Vince Vance leaned into it. The foil sun-reflector spun around to his back and flapped.

  They whizzed into the music room, where the band was waiting for its cues. The musicians wore bow ties and pasty smiles. “I’m your host! Vince Vance!” he shouted, and the band revved up. “You can have your own theme song!” Vince shouted over the music. He listened with his eyes closed, his eyebrows hitched up; and then when the song was done, he said, “Go on, Oyster. Give it a try. Just like I did. They’ll make one just for you on the spot!”

  “Really?” Oyster asked.

  “Of course!”

  Oyster felt a little shy. He cleared his throat. Leatherbelly sat up in his stroller.

  “Nice and loud now!”

  “Okay,” Oyster said, and then he shouted, “I’m your host! Oyster R. Motel!” And a new song kicked up, a great, big tune with full horns. It suited Oyster, or some version of him that he’d like to be—a big, loud, famous version.

  The song ended.

  Vince Vance clapped his hands. “On we go! Faster now!” he said. “Let’s eat!”

  The elderly Perths tore down a hallway, then banged through two swinging doors into a kitchen thrumming with chefs. The room was billowing with scented steam in a sea of puffed white hats. Vince Vance was singing out, “Sautéed Snapping Dirt Clams! Poached Spider Wolf eggs stuffed with buttered creamy fat! Fried Dragon dipped in marmalade!” As they whizzed past, Vince Vance held open his mouth. The chefs popped bits into it.

  “Open up!” Vince Vance shouted.

  Leatherbelly nipped the food from the chefs’ hands before they even had time to give it to him. Oyster didn’t open his mouth just yet. He liked the sound of marmalade and buttered creamy fat, but Spider Wolf eggs, fried Dragon? Still, he was extremely hungry and very tired of figs, chocolate-covered or not. Everything smelled delicious. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth. It was filled up with flavors he’d never tasted before: mixes of sweets and sours, gummy and melting and crunchy. He loved them all.

  “Here we eat well! No restrictions like those lowly Perths in Boneland. No digging for roots like the Doggers. Faster now! Onward!”

  “Thank you,” Oyster called out. “Thanks!” Why hadn’t Ippy found this place? He thought back to her little damp home at the bottom of a chute. Did she even know that this existed? And that’s when he remembered calling to her
for help after landing hard on his back and everything going dim. Had she been listening then? Was she still refusing to help him? Well, he didn’t need her help.

  The chefs bowed, tipping their poofy hats.

  The elderly Perths flew down another hallway, full speed. Oyster could hear them panting. He felt guilty about how hard they were working. He said, “I can walk. I don’t mind.”

  “Don’t be absurd!” Vince Vance said. Then he whispered loudly, as if the Perths couldn’t hear. “What else would they do if not this!”

  Well, maybe that is true, Oyster thought. I mean, better here than at Orwise Suspar’s Refinery, sucking powder into their lungs. Plus, Oyster liked the wind in his hair. He liked leaning into the breeze like Vince Vance.

  Vince Vance shouted, “Note the gold trim!” He pointed to ceilings and chair rails and banisters. “Note the statues!”

  Oyster stared at the statues, posed in a little hunting scene. They were white, like bone: a Dogger holding a quiver; two Perths poised with their arrows, the bows’ strings held tight to their faces.

  “Toys!” Vince Vance ordered.

  The elderly Perths turned left and sprinted.

  The toy room was glorious and massive. The elderly Perths slowed down so Oyster could take it all in. Windup Dragons lumbered through high plastic grass. The ceiling buzzed with large, fake black birds with bright red beaks (Blood-Beaked Vultures?) and Iglits. Vince Vance pushed a button and the berry bushes sang the “Home Sweet Home” song. The baby fists snapped their fingers and the blue-petaled flowers swayed.

  “Try the slide,” Vince Vance said.

  Oyster got out of the lounge chair and climbed the stairs built into the leg of a huge plastic Dragon. Vince Vance pushed a button and the Dragon’s tail began to wag. Oyster slipped down it, swaying this way and that. He’d never seen anything like this. A place just for children! He hadn’t even been allowed to sit on the merry-go-round horse with the shiny smile in Dr. Fromler’s office.