"I'd rather not be eaten at all!”
“Ew!" Bastille repeated.
"Hide the sword,” Kaz said, finally getting to his feet. He was short enough to stand upright. "I'll get us out of here.”
"Great," I said, the light winking out. "Maybe you could get us a bath too, and - gruble-garb-burgle!"
I was suddenly underwater.
I thrashed about in the dark, terrified, suffocating. The water was horribly cold, and my skin grew numb in a few heartbeats. I opened my mouth to cry out -
Which, mind you, was a pretty stoopidalicious thing to do.
And then I washed out into open air, water rushing around me as I fell through an open doorway. Kaz stood to the side, gasping, holding the door open. He'd managed to get us to Keep Smedry; a familiar black stone hallway led in either direction.
I sat up, holding my head, my clothing wet. We appeared to have fallen out of the cleaning closet, and the floor of the hallway was now soaked with salty seawater. A few small, white-eyed fish flopped around on the stones. Bastille lay in front of me, hair a soggy silver mass. She groaned and sat up, flipping her hair back.
"Where were we?" I asked.
"Bottom of the ocean," Kaz said, taking off his soaked leather jacket and eyeing it appraisingly.
"The pressure should have killed us!"
"Nah," Kaz said, wringing out his jacket, "we surprised her. We were gone before she realized we were there."
"Her?" I asked.
"The ocean,” Kaz said. "She never expects Smedry Talents."
"Who does?" Bastille said, her voice flat.
"Well, you did say you wanted a bath," Kaz said. “Come on. We should get moving before those knights think to send someone to Keep Smedry."
I sighed, climbing to my feet, and the three of us jogged down the hallway - our clothing making squishing noises - and entered a stairwell. We climbed to the top of one of the keep's towers and ran out onto the landing pad. There we found an enormous glass butterfly lethargically flapping its wings. It reflected the sunlight, throwing out colorful sparkles of light in all directions.
I froze. "Wait. This is our escape vehicle?"
"Sure," Kaz said. "The Colorfly. Something wrong?"
"Well, it's not particularly . . . manly.”
"So?" Bastille said, hands on hips.
"Er . . . I mean . . . well, I was hoping to be able to escape in something a little more impressive."
"So if it's not manly, it's not impressive?" Bastille said, folding her arms.
“I . . . er . . .”
"Now would be a good time to shut up, Al," Kaz said, chuckling. "You see, if your mouth is closed, that will prevent you from saying anything else. And that will prevent you from getting a foot in your mouth - either yours placed there or hers kicking you."
It seemed like good advice. I shut my mouth and trotted after Kaz, making my way to the gangplank up to the glass butterfly.
To this day, however, I'm bothered by that departure. I was going on what was, in many ways, my first real mission. Before, I'd stumbled into things accidentally. But now I'd actively decided to go out and help.
It seemed that I should be able to make my triumphant departure inside something cooler than a butterfly. In heroic journey terms, that's like being sent to college driving a pale yellow '76 Pacer. (Ask your parents.)
But, as I believe I've proven to you in the past, life is not fair. If life were fair, ice cream would be calorie free, kittens would come with warning labels stamped on their foreheads, and James Joyce's "The Dead" would totally be about zombies. (And don't get me started on Faulkner's As I Lay Dying.)
"Hey, cousin!" a voice exclaimed. A head popped out of the bottom of the butterfly. It had short, black hair with dark tan skin. A hand followed, waving at me. Both belonged to a young Mokian girl. If she were from the Hushlands, she'd have been described as Hawaiian or Samoan. She was wearing a colorful red-and-blue sarong and had a flower pinned in her hair.
"Who are you?" I asked, walking under the glass vehicle.
"I'm your cousin Aydee! Kaz says you need me to fly you to Mokia." There was an exuberance about her that reminded me of her sister, Australia. Only Australia was much older. This girl couldn't be more than eight years old.
"You’re our pilot? But you're just a kid!"
"I know! Ain't it great?" She smirked, then pulled back into the butterfly, a glass plate sliding into place where she’d been hanging.
"Best not to challenge her, Al,” Kaz said, walking up and laying a hand on my arm.
"But we're going into a war zone!" I said, looking at Kaz.
"We shouldn't bring a kid into that."
"Oh, so perhaps I should leave you behind?" Kaz said.
"The Hushlanders would call you a kid too."
"That's different," I said lamely.
"Her homeland is being attacked," Bastille said, climbing up the gangplank. "She has a right to help. Nobody sends children into battle, but they can help in other ways. Like flying us to Mokia. Come on! Have you forgotten that we're being chased?"
"It seems like I'm always being chased," I said, climbing up the gangplank. "Come on. Let's get going."
Kaz followed me up: and the gangplank swung closed. The butterfly lurched into the air and swooped
. . . well, fluttered . . .
away from the city in a dramatic
. . . well, leisurely . . .
flight toward Mokia, with a dangerous
. . . well, mostly just a cute . . .
determination to see the kingdom protected and defended!
Either that or we'd just spend our time drinking nectar from flowers. You know, whatever ended up working.
CHAPTER 42
Change.
It's important to change. I, for instance, change my underwear every day. Hopefully you do too. If you don't, please stay downwind.
Change is frightening. Few of us ever want things to change. (Well, things other than underwear.) But change is also fascinating - in fact, it's necessary. Just ask Heraclitus.
Heraclitus was a funny little Greek man best known for letting his brother do all of the hard work, for calling people odd names, and for writing lyrics for Disney songs about two thousand years too early for them to be sung. He was quite an expert on change, even going so far as to change from alive to dead after smearing cow dung on his face. (Er, yes, that last part is true, I'm afraid.)
Heraclitus is the first person we know of to ever gripe about how often things change. In fact, he went so far as to guess that you can never touch the same object twice - because everything and everybody changes so quickly, any object you touch will change into something else before you touch it again.
I suppose that this is true. We're all made of cells, and those are bouncing around, breaking off, dying, changing. If nothing could change, then we wouldn't be able to think, grow, or even breathe. What would be the point? We'd all be about as dynamic as a pile of rocks. (Though, as I think about it, even that pile of rocks is changing moment by moment, as the winds blow and break off atoms.)
So . . . I guess what Heraclitus was saying is that your underpants are always changing, and technically you now have on a different pair than you did when you began reading this chapter. So I guess you don't have to change them every day.
Sweet! Thanks, philosophy!
I whistled in amazement, hanging upside down from the tree. "Wow! That was quite the trip! Aydee, you're a fantastic pilot."
"Thanks!" Aydee said, hanging nearby.
"I mean, I thought thirty-seven chapters' worth of flying would be boring,” I said. "But that was probably the most exciting thing I've been a part of since Grandpa showed up on my doorstep six months ago!”
“I particularly enjoyed the fight with the giant half squid, half wombat," Bastille said.
"You really showed him something!” I said.
"Thanks! I didn't realize he'd be so interested in my stamp collection."
"Y
eah, I didn't realize you'd taken so many pictures of people's faces you'd stamped on!”
"Personally," Kaz said, untangling himself from the bushes below, "I preferred the part where we flew up into space."
"We should have done that in book two," Bastille said.
"Then that cover would have made sense."
"There were so many exciting things on this trip,” I said, still swinging in the vines. "It's tough to pick just one as my favorite."
Kaz dusted himself off looking up at me. “Reason number eighty-two why it's better to be a short person: when you plummet to your doom, you don’t fall as far as tall people."
"What?" I said. "Of course you do!”
"Nonsense," Kaz said. "Maybe our feet fall as far as yours, but our heads have less distance to fall. So it's less dangerous for us on average."
"I don't think it works that way," Bastille said.
Kaz shrugged. "Anyway, Al, if you ever write your autobiography you’re going to have a real tough time writing out that trip here. I mean . . . words just won't be able to describe how perfectly awesome it was."
"I'm sure I'll think of something," I said, letting Bastille help me untangle myself from the vines. I dropped awkwardly to the ground beside Kaz, and then Bastille went to help Aydee get down.
"Where are we?" I asked.
"Just outside of Tuki Tuki, by my guess," Kaz said. "I'm certain that rock that knocked down the Colorfly was thrown by a Librarian machine. I'll go scout for a moment. Wait here."
Kaz moved off into the bushes, pulling out his machete. He didn't - thankfully - engage his Talent. I made sure to keep an eye on him as he walked out toward the sunlit ridge in the near distance. We were in a dense, tropical jungle arrayed with a large number of flowers hanging from vines, sprouting from trees, and blooming at our feet. Insects buzzed around, moving from flower to flower, and didn't seem to have any interest in me or the others.
The flight had taken a long time, but it had seemed to pass remarkably quickly, considering how busy we’d been with wombats, outer space, and stamp collections. It seemed like just a few moments ago that we'd left Nalhalla, yet now here we were, hours of flying later, in Mokia. In fact, those chapters were so fast, so quick, so exciting, it almost feels like I skipped writing them.
Good thing I didn't, though. That would have been pretty stoopid of me, eh?
Aydee sighed as Bastille helped her down. “I’m going to miss that ship."
"You know," I said, "that's the third time I’ve been up in one of those glass ships, and it's also the third time I’ve crash-landed. I'm beginning to think that they aren’t very safe.”
"Of course there couldn't be another explanation,” Bastille said dryly.
"What do you mean?”
"I've flown in them hundreds of times,” Bastille said. “And the only three times I've crash-landed, I’ve been flying with you."
“Oh,” I said, scratching my head.
"I'm going to have to travel with you more often, cousin!" Aydee said. "I never get shot down when I fly on my own!"
It appeared that Aydee had inherited the characteristic Smedry sense of adventure. I eyed my diminutive cousin. We hadn't had much of a chance to talk, despite the lengthy flight - we'd had to spend too much time dodging war koalas while building a new lighthouse for underprivileged children. (You might want to reread Chapters Five through Forty-One to relive the adventure of it all.)
I reached out to her. "I don't believe I've properly introduced myself. I'm Alcatraz.”
“Aydee Ecks," she said energetically. "Is it true you have the Breaking Talent?"
"The one and only,” I said. "It's not everything it's cracked up to be."
“No," Bastille added, "everything else is what it cracks up.”
"What's your Talent?" I asked Aydee, shooting a dry look at Bastille.
"I'm really bad at math!" she proclaimed.
By now I was getting used to Smedry Talents. I'd met family members who were magically bad at dancing, others who were great at looking ugly in the morning. Being bad at math . . . well, that just seemed to fit right in. "Congratulations," I said. "That sounds useful.”
Aydee beamed.
Kaz came traipsing back a few moments later, his pack slung on his shoulder. "Yup," he said, “we’re here. The capital city is just a short hike down that direction, but there’s a full Librarian blockade set up around the place.”
"Great," I said.
The others looked to me, expecting me to take the lead. Partially because of my lineage, but also because I’d organized this trip. It was still odd to be in charge, but I’d taken the lead a number of times now. Though it had originally bothered me, I was getting used to it. (Kind of how listening to really loud music a lot will slowly make your hearing worse.)
"All right," I said, kneeling down. “Let’s go over our resources. Bastille, what do you have?”
"Sword," she said, patting the sheath at her side. “Dagger. Warrior's Lenses. Glassweave outfit." Her militaristic trousers and jacket were made of a special kind of defensive glass; they could take a pounding and leave her unharmed.
She pulled her stylish sunglasses out of her pocket and put them on. They'd enhance her physical abilities.
"Kaz?"
"I've got a pair of Warrior's Lenses too," he said. He patted his pack. "I've got my sling to throw rocks, and some standard gear. Rope, a couple of throwing knives, a grappling hook, flares, and snacks."
"Snacks?"
"Pop taught me never to rescue a near-doomed allied kingdom on an empty stomach."
"Wise man, my grandfather," I said. “Aydee, what do you have?"
“A bubbly, infectious personality!" she said. “And a cute flower in my hair."
"Excellent." I fished around in my pocket. "I've got my standard Oculator's Lenses,” I said, "along with my Translator's Lenses and one Truthfinder's Lens." The former had been given to me by my father; the latter I'd discovered in the tomb of Alcatraz the First. Neither were very powerful in battle, but they could be useful in other ways.
As I fished in the pockets of my jacket, I was shocked to discover something else. A pouch that hadn’t been there before, at least not in the morning when I'd gotten dressed. I pulled it out, frowning, then undid the laces at the top.
Inside were two pairs of Lenses. They glowed powerfully to my eyes, as I was wearing my Oculator's Lenses.
I took the new Lenses out. One had a baby blue tint to them. I'd used these before; they were called Courier’s Lenses. The other Lenses had a green-and-purple tint.
“Wow," Bastille said, snatching the second pair from my hand, holding them up. "Alcatraz, where did you get these?"
"I have no idea," I said, looking inside the pouch. There appeared to be a little note tucked into it. “What are they?”
"Bestower's Lenses," she said, sounding just a bit awed. "They're very powerful."
I got the note out, unfolding it. You called me once with a set of Courier's Lenses when you weren’t supposed to be able to, the note said. Give it a try again.
It was signed Grandpa Smedry.
I hesitated, then pulled off my Oculator's Lenses and put on the Courier's Lenses. They were supposed to be able to work over only short distances, but I was discovering that there were a lot of things about Lenses and silimatic glass that didn’t work the way everyone said they did.
I concentrated, doing something I'd only recently learned to do, giving extra power to the Lenses. Static fuzzed in my ears. And then, an image of Grandpa Smedry's face appeared in front of me, hovering in the air. It was faintly translucent.
Ha! Grandpa's voice said in my ears. Alcatraz, my boy, you really can do it!
"Yeah," I said. The others gave me odd looks, but I tapped the glasses.
You found the Lenses, I presume? Grandpa asked.
“I did," I replied. "How'd you get them into my pocket?"
Oh, I've been known to practice a little sleight of hand in my day, my
boy, he said. I'd been meaning to give you those Lenses for some time. Make good use of them. I'm sure dear Bastille can tell you how to use them. Ha! The lass seems to know more about my Lenses sometimes than I do! Are you in Mokia yet?
"We've arrived at Tuki Tuki," I said. "I've got Kaz with me, and my cousin Aydee."
Excellent, lad, excellent. I'm working on the knights. I’ve almost got them in agreement to come with me to “rescue” you. But they're not convinced that you're in danger. They think that you tricked them and didn't really fly to Moki - you just acted like it to try to get them to go join the war.
"Wow," I said. “As I think about it, that might have been a pretty good idea."
Except for the fact that we'll need to prove to them where you are, Grandpa said. Your cousin Aydee was in town dropping off a bit of Communicator's Glass. The other piece is in the palace, with Bastille's sister, the queen. If you can contact the Mokian embassy in Nalhalla through it, that will prove that you're there in Mokia. They won't take my word on it with the Courier's Lenses, but if you contact the embassy, the knights will have no choice but to come defend you.
"All right," I said.
This will be dangerous, lad, Grandpa said. I don t want you getting hurt.
"But that's the Smedry way!" I said, imitating him.
Ha! Well, so it is. But surviving is also the Smedry way. Get in, contact the embassy, and then lay low. Don't go fight on the battlefield yourself. Understand?
"Clear as glass," I said.
What kind of glass? Grandpa asked.
"The transparent kind," I said. "I'll let you know once we're inside."
Good lad.
His face vanished, and I felt an overwhelming fatigue. I stumbled over to a moss-covered stone and sat down, exhausted.
"Alcatraz,” Bastille said, "was your grandfather still in Nalhalla?"
I nodded.
"But . . . you shouldn't be able to . . ."
"I know, Bastille," I said. "That's probably why I'm so tired. Impossible things are really rough to do, you know."
She looked troubled.
"Hey!" Kaz exclaimed suddenly, looking through his pack. "I forgot that I stuffed these in here." He pulled out some colored teddy bears.
Alcatraz Versus the Shattered Lens Page 4
