This Isn't What It Looks Like-secret 4

by Pseudonymous Bosch

  “Anyway, don’t tell anyone else—she wouldn’t want people to talk about it,” he said. “And don’t worry about her—she’ll be OK soon.”

  “I hope so! My goodness, what would happen to all the disasters in the world if our dear Cass wasn’t around to predict them?”

  Max-Ernest nodded his assent. Although his powers of sarcasm detection had improved greatly over the last couple of years, if there was any sarcasm in Benjamin’s voice—and I’m not saying there was—it was far too subtle for Max-Ernest to discern.

  Lunch ended shortly thereafter. As the reunited friends parted ways, Benjamin coughed and lowered his voice.

  “Max-Ernest, old chum, I don’t want to embarrass you, but there’s a piece of paper stuck to your back…. May I?”

  Gravely and politely, Benjamin unpinned the paper and handed it to Max-Ernest.

  Max-Ernest groaned. It was a classic schoolyard prank—one played on him dozens of times over the years. There were two words written on the paper:

  KICK ME

  “Thanks,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Don’t mention it.” Benjamin gave a little bow, then sauntered away.

  Max-Ernest was about to toss the offending paper in the trash when he noticed that there was writing on the back side. It looked like some kind of travel advisory.

  WARNING:

  L TRAIN–ORD, FARE CHANGING.

  BRING OLIVES, NOT N-WORDS.

  The wording was so strange that Max-Ernest immediately suspected he was looking at a coded message from the Terces Society. Travel-derived encryptions were a personal favorite of Pietro’s. But what did it mean? Max-Ernest could tell at a glance it wasn’t a keyword code or any kind of simple alphabet substitution.

  ORD were the call letters for Chicago O’Hare Airport. Was he meant to go there? Why? How?* Presumably, there was an L (short for elevated) train in Chicago that led to the airport. But as for the fare changing, why should he care? He didn’t even know how much the old fare had been.

  BRING OLIVES, NOT N-WORDS. Max-Ernest figured the key to decoding the message lay in that last sentence, simply because it was the oddest. Olive was a word/name that occurred often in palindromic form—e.g., EVIL = OLIVE. The most likely solution, Max-Ernest concluded, would involve if not a palindrome then at least an anagram. WORDS = SWORD? But then what about the N?

  The n-word was usually no, but the plural suggested the meaning had to be something else. Bring olives, not nuts? Not newspapers? Not nuclear bombs?

  Uncharacteristically, Max-Ernest gave up and slipped the message into his back pocket. Normally, a message from the Terces Society would be a top priority for him, and he would forgo all other activity until it was decoded. But this one would have to wait, he decided. He had a more pressing matter to attend to: Cass.*

  A moment later, in the library, Max-Ernest wrote an e-mail to Yo-Yoji, telling him about the unlikely return of Benjamin Blake. And about how desperate he was to bring Cass back to the present.

  Get inside Cass’s head, Pietro had instructed him. He had to figure out how right away.

  Compared to the horrifying description of the pigpen in “The Legend of Cabbage Face,” the royal kennels didn’t look like such a bad place to stay the night. Indeed, they were rather splendid.

  The kennels occupied a long brick building designed to resemble the palace in miniature. Inside, the walls were painted with murals of dogs frolicking in the woods and giving chase to a frightened fox while chubby canine cherubim smiled down at them. Each of the King’s prize beagles had his own tufted velvet pillow trimmed with gold braid so thick and opulent, you would have expected to see it hanging from the canopy above the King’s own bed. Meanwhile, each beagle meal was served in a silver tureen with a royal crest engraved in the center and the beagle’s name engraved on the rim.

  And such meals!

  As the visibly hungry homunculus was dragged in by the soldier, the regal beagles were feasting on all sorts of meats and poultries dripping with delicious fats and juices. Cass noticed the homunculus’s eyes linger on a standing rib roast currently being devoured by the first and fattest and clearly most favored in the line of dogs—Terrence III, according to his bowl. Is this where Mr. Cabbage Face develops his obsession with crown roasts? Cass wondered.

  As the homunculus passed by, his mouth watering, Terrence looked up from his bowl and casually let fall a rib from his teeth. It landed at the hungry homunculus’s feet, and the homunculus gratefully reached for it. But Terrence snatched it back, snarling, before the homunculus made contact.

  The homunculus winced as if he’d been hit.

  Then, as if once weren’t enough, the overfed beagle again dropped the bone in front of the homunculus—and again snatched it back before the homunculus could reach it.

  Cass shook her head in disbelief. What kind of dog intentionally tortured someone like that?

  Alas, the luxurious life of a regal beagle was not for a lowly homunculus. Once the soldier handed him over to the trainer, it became clear there were other plans for the homunculus. He was not to sleep on a velvet pillow or even to sleep at all, the trainer instructed, but rather to spend the night cleaning the kennels of any, shall we say, royal remains that happened to sully the kennels’ polished marble floor. The trainer gave the homunculus a shovel and a mop and made sure he knew that if there were any spots on the floor in the morning, the homunculus would dearly regret it.

  Cass waited until all the other humans had left, or perhaps I should say until all the other humanoids had left (considering we’re dealing with an invisible time-traveling girl and a tiny boy-man made in a bottle) before addressing the homunculus.

  “You don’t recognize me, do you…? No, of course, you don’t. We haven’t met yet. We won’t meet for five hundred years,” she said as much to remind herself as to enlighten him. “I’m Cassandra. If that’s too long, you can call me Cass. Almost everybody does.”

  The homunculus stared at her, perplexed. He seemed unable to understand her words and even less to understand her intentions.

  “You don’t know it, but we’re going to be good friends one day. Well, sort of good friends. I have to admit there’s a part of me that will always be a little freaked out because you’re a cannibal.”*

  Perhaps she shouldn’t have mentioned that, Cass thought. It might influence him to try cannibalism sooner.

  It was a strange experience, meeting an old friend with whom you share so many memories, and realizing that this person doesn’t remember any of them. She didn’t know how much to tell the young Mr. Cabbage Face, how much to let him learn later on his own. According to the Prime Directive, she shouldn’t be interfering with his normal development; but were the rules for interstellar space travel the same as for intrabrain time travel?*

  “Anyway, we have to figure out how to get you out of here,” she said, changing the subject. “Remember, if anybody comes, don’t say anything to me. They can’t see me…. But you can talk now, if you want.”

  Cass couldn’t understand why he wasn’t saying anything. Although the homunculus in her memory wasn’t always the most talkative creature in the world, he could talk up a storm when he got going on one of his stories. And the insatiable Mr. Cabbage Face was downright garrulous when you plied him with food and drink.

  “Well, first things first—let’s get you food, right?”

  Although all the beagles had licked their bowls clean (seemingly relishing eating in front of the starving homunculus), Cass was able to find six leftover roast chickens on a counter.

  “Here you go, Mr. Cabbage Face. Six chickens coming up. That should be enough—even for you.”

  The beagles yelped in protest, seeing chickens they felt rightfully to be theirs carried away by invisible hands. But the homunculus, showing unexpected spirit, snarled so viciously into Terrence’s ear that not only Terrence but all the dogs sank into their velvet cushions, whimpering with fear.

  “I guess some dogs can dish
it out, but they can’t take it,” said Cass, shaking her invisible head.

  The not-quite-two-foot-tall homunculus ate the six chickens almost faster than Cass was able to hand them to him. Soon there was a familiar pile of bones in front of him, each bone gnawed furiously and with every drop of marrow sucked out.

  Cass smiled. Some things never changed. Or rather, never would change over the next five hundred years.

  “OK, satisfied now?” she asked after the homunculus had devoured his last bite.

  Crouched on the floor, a last bone in each hand, the homunculus looked up at her, unblinking. He either didn’t understand the question or didn’t know how to answer.

  “Right. You’re never satisfied. I know.” Cass sighed, leaning against the counter. “What I mean is, did you eat enough so we can think about something else now—like what’s next?”

  Cass was torn about what to do:

  In “The Legend of Cabbage Face,” she remembered, the Jester finds the homunculus in the pigpen. After offering the homunculus food, he persuades the homunculus to speak. And it is the Jester who frees the homunculus—from the pigpen and from Lord Pharaoh.

  Would she be toying too much with fate if she freed the homunculus herself? And shouldn’t she be waiting for the Jester, anyway? Meeting him was her reason for being here. He was why she had eaten the chocolate and journeyed five hundred years into the past.

  On the other hand, what if the Jester never showed up? The story had already been proven unreliable. Wasn’t the homunculus’s freedom the most important thing?

  “I really don’t know what to do, but if you don’t say something, I might just have to leave you here,” said Cass, not meaning it. “I’ll tell you what—if you talk, I’ll make sure you get one of those crown roasts like the dog had as soon we get out of here, OK?”

  The bribery was a desperate tactic, but it had worked in the past. Or rather in the future.

  “Come on, think of those juicy bones. I know you can speak.”

  “I c-can,” he whispered.

  “What’s that? I didn’t hear you.”

  “I can,” said the homunculus more loudly. “I can speak.”

  “Well done!”

  Cass froze. Who had said those last two words?

  She heard the jingling of the bells on his hat before she saw him.

  The Jester.

  “I knew thou couldst speak. I came on purpose to make thee squeak!”

  He entered, the dogs barking snappishly after him but still too scared to get up from their cushions.

  “I thought to make many trips. But I see I’ve already loose’d your lips!”

  Cass stared. She couldn’t believe she was standing in the same room as the Jester, the founder of the Terces Society, her only known ancestor. Her previous encounters with him—also chocolate-induced—had been so fleeting and dreamlike, he hadn’t seemed real.

  He looked much as Cass remembered—round freckled cheeks, orange curls peeking out of his hat—but at the same time much younger. Of course, his most striking feature was identical to her most striking feature: the big pointy ears.

  The Jester grinned, nearly twirling around, he was so pleased with himself.

  “Like magic I give thee the gift of speech. I need not lift my hand to reach!”

  What could she possibly say to him that would measure up to the importance of the occasion? True, she was invisible, but she would just have to make him overlook that.

  And she would have to try to overlook the fact that he was taking credit for getting the homunculus to talk. (Normally, this was the kind of thing that made her furious.)

  The Jester glanced around, making sure he and the homunculus were alone.

  “We have only the animals for audience,” he whispered. “So I may tell you my secret.”

  Cass’s ears pricked up. Was she about to hear the Secret already?

  “I tire of this palace place. Like you, I seek to be my own master. Lord Pharaoh keeps you on a leash. So the King keeps me. Though you see not the chain, I feel no less the pain.”

  He studied the homunculus’s face for a reaction, then continued, “I have a most daring plan. By cover of night, we shall flee. Far from king and pharaoh, where we shall both be free.”

  The Jester paced excitedly, gesturing with his hands.

  “What then, you ask? Where go our feet? What shall we eat?” The Jester smiled. “Ah, but this is the best part. ’Tis a dream come true. We shall perform together! Think on it—the Human Fool and the Wise Monster. I shall make them laugh, you shall make them weep. And together we shall make a big gold heap!”

  He formed the heap of gold with his hands, then rubbed them together with anticipation.

  “So, my little friend—what say you?”

  The homunculus opened his mouth, then clamped it shut. Whether because there was nothing to say or too much.

  The Jester nodded. “You speak no more tonight. Good. You are my ideal friend, for I talk without end. You see, I never learned to hold my tongue, only to fold it—”

  He started to fold his tongue in demonstration, then, seeing the homunculus’s blank expression, he gave up.

  “What? I do not make you laugh…? You’re right, there was little fun in that pun. How’s this, then—did you hear the one—? Oh, what’s the use? I can no more tell a joke than flap my wings and fly. A fine jester am I!”

  He sank down to the floor and slumped against the wall, his enthusiasm draining away.

  “But you, you are a living miracle,” said the Jester bitterly. “The talking homunculus. To see you, people would travel the world. And what am I? A fool! Not even a full-fool, I am a half-wit. An idiot. No wonder you will not have me. I do not deserve to work with a talent such as you….”

  The Jester lifted his head, clenching his jaw in determination.

  “Well, if I must, I’ll strike out on my own. I am used to working alone. I am a professional, after all. And you, what have you ever done? It wasn’t you that made you! You are not your own miracle, you are Lord Pharaoh’s,” said the Jester scornfully. “I offer you the benefit of my professional expertise, and you spurn me without so much as an ‘if you please…’ ”

  He put his head in his hands, the picture of despair, while the homunculus watched, baffled.

  “Forgive me, I know not what I say,” came the Jester’s muffled apology. “You have done no wrong.”

  Now sitting on the counter, Cass contemplated the Jester in chagrined disbelief. Was this really the great man she’d read and heard so much about? Only her experience listening to Max-Ernest prepared her to follow the Jester’s wild leaps in logic. As for his radical mood swings, she was fairly certain Max-Ernest would diagnose the Jester as bipolar.

  The Jester looked over at the homunculus again and took a deep breath. “It is time for my confessional: I am no more a professional. I do not run from the King, the King has run me out. Now that Lord Pharaoh has his ear, he says my sense of humor is in doubt. ’Tis true, tonight I ate my last of the royal repast.”

  Tears ran down his cheeks and it was all Cass could do to resist the impulse to offer him a reassuring hug.

  “Yesterday, I was the King’s jester. Today I am merely the King’s yester.”

  Pulling himself together, the Jester stood and addressed the homunculus once more.

  “I hoped you would be my partner, but I will no longer try to barter. Let them not say of me that I failed to set you free.”

  Eyes shining, he put his hand to his heart, overwhelmed by his own noble nature. “If I cannot be a proper fool, at least I shall be a proper man!”

  His words were punctuated by the bang of a door and the renewed barking of the beagles.

  “Hark! What do I hear?”

  Footsteps. The unmistakable synchronized footsteps of the King’s soldiers.

  Cass quickly surveyed their surroundings. The closest thing to an exit was a window above the counter, large enough for a homunculus but too small for
a full-size human. She reached up and pushed it open.

  “Look—an open window!” The Jester pointed, as if he’d personally discovered it.

  “Wait. Your collar—,” said Cass aloud to the homunculus before she could stop herself. She was worried that the chain dangling from the homunculus’s collar would catch on the window.

  A large pair of gardening shears were sitting nearby. In a flash, she clipped his collar off.

  “Ah, good, I’m glad you are rid of that!” The Jester, confused about what he’d just seen and heard, shrugged it off. “Now, you climb through the window, and I… I will stay and face the King’s soldiers,” he said in an exaggeratedly strong voice.

  The homunculus did not have to be told twice. He sprang up onto the counter like an oversize frog and climbed out the window just as the soldiers stormed in.

  Lord Pharaoh followed.

  “Where is he?” he demanded, towering over the Jester. “What have you done with my homunculus?”

  “He’s not yours,” replied the Jester. “He is his own self’s. And I have done nothing but what any man would do who has a heart.”

  “You may have a heart but you have no brain. Arrest this baboon!” Lord Pharaoh pointed to the Jester’s hat. “I do not want to hear those bells jingle again unless they’re deep inside the palace dungeon!”

  As Cass watched helplessly, the soldiers hog-tied the Jester and dragged him out of the kennels, leaving Cass alone with the jeering barks of the regal beagles.*

  Mom, Dad, do you have any books on mental telepathy or second sight or anything like that?”

  Max-Ernest found his parents sitting in what was now their joint office. Their desks arranged so that the back of one desk touched the back of the other, they stared moonishly into each other’s eyes without having to so much as turn their necks. Once two separate offices, the room was ringed by a ragged line of cracks and splinters where the two offices had been joined together. On the floor were broken pieces of lumber and chalky chunks of mortar—a hazardous mess—but they didn’t appear to notice any of it.