Leven Thumps: The Complete Series

by Obert Skye

  Today, unfortunately, was not that day.

  Clover had tried to warn Leven against helping Albert, but Leven had too much hero in him to let Albert just stand there and be captured by the sarus. Now, thanks to Leven’s big heart, the sarus had him instead of Albert.

  Clover shivered, clinging to a tree branch high above the gaze Leven was imprisoned in. He watched the sarus dance around the gaze, beating it with their sticks, making sure Leven was fully aware of the elements around him.

  As the sarus stopped their beating and retreated from the gaze, they moved directly below Clover and began to abandon the sticks they were controlling. The sarus would vibrate, and the stick skeletons they were clinging to would rattle, slide out from under them, and click up against the ground in a pile. The thousands of sarus who had controlled each stick would then fly off into the forest to find other victims to keep in other gazes.

  Clover watched quietly.

  In a matter of minutes the sarus were all gone, and Clover was alone in the tree, looking at the still gaze below him.

  He shivered again.

  Clover was not a big fan of the sarus. Years before, when Antsel had been working his way through the forest to rescue a lithen who had been buried here, he had stumbled into a cloud of sarus.

  They had attacked Antsel, and Clover had tried to help fight them off. It was a silly thing for Clover to even try, seeing how Antsel’s gifts made him amply able to take care of himself. The sarus had swarmed Clover and forced their way into his mouth and nose and even into the void he had on the front of his robe. Fortunately, Antsel and Clover eventually got away. Clover was able to spit and blow the sarus from his mouth and nose, but it took him years to get all of them out of his void. In fact, the last one he had pulled out had been in Reality.

  Clover shivered a third time.

  He was not about to show himself to the little pests. They would certainly cram and hide themselves in his void so that every time he reached in to get something he would be attacked. So he stayed invisible and hidden until the time was right for him to rescue Leven.

  The time now looked right.

  Clover jumped down from the tree and onto the gaze. The giant vat swayed just a bit under his weight. Remaining invisible, he yelled, “Leven!”

  There was no answer. Clover banged on the top of the gaze, but he couldn’t hear anything from inside. The gaze was too thick.

  Clover crawled around on the rounded lid, looking for something that would open the vat. He had watched the sarus beat it closed, but now he couldn’t find a single notch or lever or crack to open the thing up.

  “My little yolk,” Clover said sadly, knowing that Leven would not approve of the nickname, but using it anyway because he knew Leven couldn’t hear. “Hold on. I’ll get you out.”

  Leven didn’t reply because Leven didn’t hear.

  Something whispered from the nearby woods. Clover looked around nervously. The noise was thin and garbled, but it seemed to penetrate Clover’s skin, wrap around his bones, and shake him.

  It was not a good feeling.

  The whisper rustled again, and Clover knew that the secret Leven had accidentally let loose in the woods was still searching for them.

  It was not a good secret. Clover could feel that in his bones.

  Clover leapt from off the gaze and back up into the trees. He dug his feet into the bark of a tree and sprang through the air to a tree farther down the way. Then he stopped for a second to think.

  “Yes,” he said to himself, having thought of a possible solution. “Of course, it could be dangerous.” Clover shrugged, as if the danger were something for someone else to worry about. He pushed off a branch and ran in great leaps toward the center of the Swollen Forest.

  He had a burn to rescue, and a secret to save him from, and he could think of only one creature that might be able to help on both accounts.

  “Why not?” Clover clicked. “He owes me.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Once-Perfect

  Balance of Foo

  Clover found a particularly thick grove of fantrum trees. He climbed to the top of the tallest one and rested on its leafy crown. His ears fluttered. He reached into his void and pulled out what looked to be a small rock. That small rock was actually a duft, a unique object that came in very handy for locating something lost. The duft was white with a ring of red running around it. In the center of it was a small black smudge. Clover pressed one of his fingers into the smudge.

  The duft began to purr. Clover used his finger and thumb to spread the small smudge around. Like clay, it moved and spread easily. Unlike clay, it purred and shivered.

  Clover twisted the duft with both hands, and the duft quickly expanded to the size of a large dinner plate. Then Clover spat on the duft and rubbed the spit around with the hem of his robe. In a few moments the surface of the duft began to shine. Clover lifted it up so that it faced the square sun.

  The purring intensified.

  The duft began to glow and pulsate with what sounded like a strong heartbeat. Clover smiled, pulled it down into his lap, and looked at its glowing surface. With one of his fingers he began to draw on the shiny duft. He drew thick, bumpy horns on a long, bloated body. He drew large teeth and a gigantic, split, tonguelike tail. He drew deep, swirling eyes and stony, hoofed feet. Clover even sketched two little creatures hanging off the beast’s ears. When he was done drawing, the duft was still glowing slightly. Clover looked at the likeness and smiled again.

  “Not bad,” he said to himself.

  Clover folded the edges of the duft back into itself, covering the drawing he had just created and bringing the duft closer to its original form. Clover worked and massaged it until it was a ball again.

  The purring died down, and slowly a thin, red line curled around the circumference of the duft, until it looked almost exactly how it had appeared when Clover had first pulled it out.

  “Perfect,” Clover said. “Well, almost, just one last thing.”

  He took his fingernail and scraped out the initials “c.e.” on the bottom of the duft. Holding the duft in his hand, Clover lifted his arm to the sky, swirled his wrist around a few times, and then threw the duft as hard as he could in an upward direction.

  The duft whizzed through the air, flying up. It arched and began to turn back and over. For a moment it appeared as if it were losing speed, but suddenly it shot off over the Swollen Forest like a bullet.

  Clover took off after it, jumping from tree to tree like a lemur trying to outrun a forest fire. The duft was traveling too fast to follow closely, but each time Clover thought he had lost it, the duft would circle back, show itself, and turn in a different direction.

  Clover threw himself up against the crown of a thin, pink fantrum tree. The top of the tree bent forward under Clover’s weight, snapped back, and then violently sprang forward, catapulting Clover in the direction of the duft.

  The purple sky lightened, causing the duft to be almost invisible. It would have been impossible to spot if not for the glowing red band spinning around it.

  “Slow down,” Clover screamed as he hurtled through the air, the wind and his speed causing his cheeks to ripple. “Sloooow dooooown!!”

  Thick flocks of Tea birds lofted up, under, and around Clover. Screeching, they scattered about him, bothered by someone other than themselves flying through the air. A few pecked at Clover as he flew by. Clover covered his eyes and tucked himself into a ball. He bowled through the birds, the force from the tree that had flung him propelling him farther still.

  Clover was closing in on the duft. He stretched his fingers and reached out to grab hold of it. His grip didn’t slow the duft in the least. It simply dragged Clover up and through the air.

  Clover screamed.

  The duft changed course, pitching and spinning to the ground like a one-winged bird and taking Clover with it.

  Clover let go and clutched a tree branch. He pushed off down toward the direction the duft
had taken. The duft zipped out of sight, screaming as it neared its target.

  Clover aimed for the noise.

  Clover tore through the thick upper branches of tightly packed fantrum trees. He skidded down and around the trunks. He tried to grip anything that would slow him down, but his hands kept slipping off the bark. Clover slammed suddenly into the ground and rolled to a stop near a moss-covered boulder.

  Clover shook his head and brushed the dirt out of the hair on his arms and legs. As usual, he wished someone other than himself had been there to witness what he had just been through.

  The noise of wood snapping sounded from behind.

  Clover disappeared, letting his eyes alone materialize. He glanced toward the noise.

  “Hello?” Clover whispered.

  Another branch snapped.

  Clover backed up and scanned the area for the duft. The forest was dark, thanks to the thick trees. The only light came from the heavy blanket of kindle moss that covered most of the forest ground. It glowed lightly, giving the space beneath the tree canopy a cavelike feel. Clover spotted the small band of red shining a few yards away.

  “There you are,” he said happily, forgetting the noise he had just heard. “I know you only work once,” Clover continued, moving toward the duft, “but I’d like to keep you for my scrapbook.”

  Clover reached the duft just as the red band dimmed to nothing. He bent down and touched the duft.

  It was warm.

  “So where is he?” Clover asked.

  The duft just sat there on the ground. With only his eyes showing, Clover looked around, wondering if the duft hadn’t worked.

  “You were supposed to lead me to a siid,” Clover sighed. “It’s pretty unprofessional of you not to do your job.” Clover leaned over and picked up the duft. “How can I be expected to—”

  Something snorted right in front of Clover, startling him and spraying him with a coating of sticky goo. He couldn’t see the source of the snort, but he had his suspicions—a siid.

  Clover could still remember Antsel’s eighth-grade oral report on the mysterious siids. Antsel had stood near the Education Trough

  in the classroom, dispensing words that filled the trough out of which the younger, less-educated students fed. Clover could see Antsel clearly in his head. He could see the words tumbling out of his mouth and into the trough:

  “The siids were created to balance the weight of Foo,” Antsel had begun. “There were seven originally, all of them spread out over the entire realm of Foo. The siids also possess the power to kill, overriding the usual invulnerability of the inhabitants of Foo. Most of the time they remain hidden, happy to be ignored, but as their stomachs become empty, they are forced to leave their hiding places and devour, say, half a village, or an entire class of school students who are too engrossed in their studies to simply look up, scream, and run for their lives.”

  Clover smiled, remembering how Antsel had paused at that point to create a greater dramatic effect. Antsel then continued:

  “After years of siid problems, the citizens of Cusp decided they were tired of living in fear, so they captured a siid in an effort to restore peace. They bound the siid and imprisoned it on the edge of Cusp above the Veil Sea. Their thought was that other siids would see what they were capable of and leave them alone. What they didn’t understand, however, was that since the siids possessed the power to kill, they also had the power to die. They fed on villagers and other creatures because they needed to live. They also needed to be a certain size because their weight stabilized Foo.

  “After being put on display, the siid they had captured eventually died of starvation, and its rotting body was dumped into the Veil Sea. The people of Cusp were amazed and empowered by what they had done. They had destroyed a siid.

  “The other six siids were then sought for game. Two more were killed, and the remaining four went into hiding. Two are rumored to be living in the Swollen Forest, and the other two are thought to be somewhere in the mountains above Fté. Together they help Foo maintain some balance. It’s not unusual to feel Foo move when one of the siids is up and wandering about.”

  Clover was still proud of the A grade Antsel had gotten on his report.

  Another snort sounded. It drew Clover out of his thoughts about Antsel. The snort also showered Clover with another wave of sticky spit. He stepped back a few inches and made his eyes disappear. He felt it was better to be heard and not seen.

  “Easy,” Clover nervously said to the dark. “If you’re what I think you are, then I need you.”

  Another snort. Another torrential wave of goo.

  “A warning would be nice,” Clover tisked, wiping thick saliva from his face. “Or perhaps you could turn your head when you do that.”

  Another snort.

  The space was dark, without kindle moss or light of any kind. And then the siid opened its glowing eyes.

  Clover half wished for the dark again. The beast stepped out of the gloom, looking very much like a gigantic version of the drawing Clover had sketched. The siid lunged at Clover, its heavy hooves tearing at the ground and sending a shower of dirt flying. Clover was invisible, but the siid could smell him. The beast opened its gigantic mouth and clamped its jaw shut over Clover, trapping him inside its mouth.

  Clover relaxed and, acting on instinct, began to rub himself against the siid’s rough tongue, giving the siid a good taste of what it had inside. Clover knew that the siids learned by licking; he only hoped the beast would remember him. Or at least recognize that he was a sycophant and not digestible.

  The giant siid flung its head and rolled Clover around in its mouth. The creature then drew its snout in like an accordion and thrust it back out, shooting Clover from its mouth to roll into the dirt.

  The siid roared.

  Clover stood and became visible again. He wiped at some of the wet slime on his fur and looked up at the siid.

  “I’m glad you remember me,” Clover said.

  The siid roared again, communicating with Clover its unhappiness at being disturbed. Two small creatures dangled from the siid’s ears. They were called waxels; all the siids had them. The waxels hung off the siids’ ears, cleaning the beasts and arguing with one another. At the moment the two waxels were arguing about how impolite and disgusting Tea birds could be.

  Clover ignored the waxels; he had come for the siid. He also knew that the siids liked motion.

  “Sorry to bother you,” Clover said, swaying to make his point. “But I have some friends who are dying, and you seemed like the only hope to save them.”

  To appease the beast further, Clover shook his right leg and shimmied a bit.

  The siid roared a third time, giving Clover the go-ahead to climb aboard, and the little sycophant didn’t hesitate.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Aisle Seats Are Better

  Desperate times call for desperate measures. That’s a saying, or a bit of advice, or a catchphrase, or a string of words used to confuse people less intelligent than you. In any case, it means: Life is tough, so you’d better fight hard—or something like that.

  Dennis Wood had never been more confused in his entire life, and he had no idea how to fight hard. At the moment he could barely breathe. He was thirty-two thousand feet above the earth, flying toward New York. The plane ticket had cost him six hundred and twenty-five dollars.

  Dennis had never flown before. He had built thousands of toy planes and had often imagined himself swooping through the air, shooting enemies and destroying anything in his path. But playing with model airplanes was a far cry from riding in the real thing.

  Ezra was hiding out in Dennis’s fanny pack. It was hard for the aggressive toothpick to remain quiet. It was not in Ezra’s personality to stay hidden away. He had bitten Dennis’s fingers each time Dennis had unzipped the pocket to check on him. Ezra was a pain, but considering that what he really wanted was to scream at the passengers and poke the pilots, he was actually behaving halfway decently
.

  Dennis looked out the window and took stock of his life. He could see nothing but the top of the airplane’s right wing surrounded by white clouds, and he wondered what had caused him to do something so out of character. He had withdrawn his life savings, quit his job, and here he was traveling across the world—all under the direction of a toothpick he had found in his sandwich.

  When he thought about it that way, he felt even more thickheaded than usual, and he was suddenly glad his father and mother had died years before. He knew they would have been beyond disappointed with what he had become and what he was doing now.

  Dennis glanced out the window again and gasped. He rubbed his eyes in astonishment. Emerging from the white clouds and keeping pace with the plane was an inky-black shadow that in some strange way looked like a man. The billowing form had long, thin arms and a pair of white eyes that were turned on Dennis, staring at him intently. At first the shadow was floating on the wind, but then it settled on top of the wing, spreading itself out like a puddle of black paint.

  Dennis blinked and pressed his face to the window. When the blackness suddenly rippled up against the window, Dennis gasped and reared back, leaning into the man sitting next to him. The man had previously been drinking and was now sound asleep.

  “Excuse me,” Dennis said, shaking the man’s shoulder.

  The man grunted and opened his eyes.

  “Do you see that?” Dennis asked, wide-eyed, pointing at the window.

  Sleepily, the man leaned across Dennis to look where he was pointing. Just then the black form swirled into a ball and pressed its white eyes up against Dennis’s window. The large man shrieked in terror and recoiled, attracting the attention of all the other passengers.

  A flight attendant came quickly to his seat. “Sir,” she said sternly, “you will need to calm—”

  “Look!” he slurred, gesturing toward the window.

  The flight attendant looked, but there was nothing but white clouds.

  “What is it?” she asked.