The Boy from Earth

by Richard Scrimger

  My sword does the rest, blocking the blow perfectly. The Dey's sword attacks lower, a sweeping blow at ankle height. I block again. It's strange, fighting a seemingly nonexistent opponent. There's no one to hit back at. All I can do is defend.

  More strokes: slashes and lunges, thrusts and parries. I hear shouting behind me, but I can't spare the time to check it out. There's one weird moment when we're locked, blade to blade and hilt to hilt. You've seen this in the movies – the two tired fighters stare into each other's eyes, and recognize something shared and important in themselves. Often the hero makes a clever remark: We must stop meeting like this, or Who does your hair? Well, we have one of those moments right now. I'm breathing hard, locked hilt to hilt, only there's no one to stare at, or talk to.

  And then, suddenly, the fight is over. The hands push my blade away. I fall back on guard, but they've had enough. The black-jeweled sword circles low, around all of us, then high, then turns over and dives blade-first into the pool.

  I take a step back and wipe my forehead. “That was close,” I say, breathing quickly. “I wonder if … what's wrong?”

  One of the knights – Sir Mount – is on the ground, clutching his face and moaning piteously. “What's happened?” I ask.

  His three brothers stare down at him helplessly, shaking their heads.

  “Bad business, what?” says Sir Mise.

  “Very,” says Sir Vey In his accent, the word sounds like his own name: vey.

  “Take years to grow back,” says Sir Prise.

  Sir Mount sits up. “Tell me, fellows, is it bad? How do I … look?” He takes away his hand, and reveals a strangely distorted face. One side of his magnificent handlebar mustache has been shaved away by the Dey's sword. Mount twists his mouth this way and that. His brothers look away sympathetically.

  “Distressing, what?” says Prise.

  “Vey,” says Vey.

  I shake my head to get the limp hair out of my eyes. That's when I notice that Barnaby and Norbert are gone. My heart drops three stories in my chest. I fly way out over the water, staring around, calling loudly. I see nothing. There's no answer. The minions have taken them.

  I fly back to the picnic table, shocked and shaken. My moment of triumph has turned to disaster. No princess, no Barnaby, no Norbert. No Norbert.

  He's so much a part of me – even when he's not living in my nose – that I feel like a different person when he's not here.

  I must rescue them. I must go into the pool and up the stairs to the Lost Schloss. The knights are useless. I've got to do it myself.

  My sword is my only friend right now. It tingles encouragingly in my hand. I take a deep breath and hold my sword high in the air – a bad idea in the middle of a thunderstorm.

  I don't actually see the lightning bolt, but I feel a hammer blow right in my chest. Giant blue sparks explode all over me, and I fall backwards into a chair with my name echoing in my ears.

  Alan … Alan …

  I'm not scared. I can feel myself electronized,* if there is such a word, with electrons flowing all over me like bees. I glow and sparkle. I feel myself growing in the chair, leaving the knights and the banquet and the castle behind me like toys.

  Alan … Alan … Alan …

  Someone is shaking me. I yawn hugely, stretch my arms up, and touch the soft bumpy clouds.

  “Alan!” My mom's voice. “Wake up!”

  *There is no such word in my dictionary. It goes from electrolysis – painless hair removal – to euthanasia – painless killing. Mind you, my friends and I like to play wastebasket basketball with the book (Nick once made four shots in a row from outside the doorway), so it may be missing some pages.

  “Wha-at?”

  I open my eyes. Fled is that storm, and the space suit and the picnic. I'm sitting in the middle seat of the Grunewald's minivan, stretching up to touch the inside of the roof. Soft and bumpy.

  I'm in my driveway. The porch light is on. The car door is open. My mom is bending over me, her hand on my shoulder.

  I'm home.

  Was Jupiter a dream? It was so real, so clear and distinct. I can still feel the sword in my hand. On the other hand, I am itchy and dirty and my tongue feels like sandpaper against the roof of my mouth.

  “Come on, Alan.” I remember how grumpy Mom was when I phoned from the highway. “Do you know how late it is?”

  I get out of the car. We wave good night to the Grunewalds. Then my mom takes up where she left off.

  “I was so worried about you,” she says. “Why didn't you call earlier? My life is a mess right now, and you're not helping.”

  She puts her hand on my shoulder again. I shake it off.

  “Mom, shut up!” I say. Rude, but that's how I feel. Her ex-boyfriend's stuff is scattered on the front lawn. I see a tennis racket. Stupid sport, tennis.

  Mom is shocked. “Now look here, young man –”

  I interrupt her. “Dammit, I'm going to bed,” I say. “It's late.”

  I'm secretly a bit scared, saying this. It doesn't sound like me, somehow. But she shouldn't be dumping on me.

  Strange being in my room again. Jupiter was such a vivid dream. I can't believe I was never there.

  “Hey, Norbert!” I whisper. “You want to hear something weird?”

  No answer.

  “Norbert?”

  Nothing. Well, I can't blame him if he's asleep. I'm pretty tired too. My bed looks damn good. I don't bother to brush my teeth or wash, just crawl under the covers.

  The light from the hall streams into my room. There's an action figure on my bedside table. One of a set of Me but Not Me medieval knights in armor. I don't remember putting it there. He's broken, like the rest of them. Lost his sword, and one half of his big mustache. I toss him away and relax, hands behind my head.

  Ahh. My bedroom. My computer, with my class picture beside it. My Cradle of Filth poster on the wall behind me. My pool cue leaning against the corner. My cigarettes on the desk. My …

  Wait a minute.

  I sit up in bed, peering around. I don't smoke, or play pool. I don't listen to Cradle of Filth.

  This isn't my room.

  But it looks just like it. It's in the same place in the house. All the stuff – bed, desk, door – is where it belongs. Even the toy knight looks familiar.

  “Norbert!” I whisper. “Norbert, get up. It's important!” I tap the side of my nose. Nothing. Damn.

  I get out of bed, thinking that the class picture might give me a clue about what's going on. I turn on my light and go over. My hands are shaking as I pick up the colored rectangle.

  It's my class! Wa-hoo! I recognize all my friends. What a relief!

  Then I see a guy who looks like me. Only this guy – the guy in the picture – has black hair and black clothes and a phony expression. It's me, but not me.

  It's a picture of the Black Dey of Ich.

  “Crap!” I say aloud. “Holy crap!”

  You know, I hardly ever swear. But I've been swearing ever since I got home. I even swore at Mom. What the hell is going on?

  I take a deep breath to calm myself. Cough a couple of times. I wish I had a mirror in my bedroom. I run across the hall to the bathroom. I have to see myself. I have to know.

  You're Alan, I tell myself. Your name is Alan. Your mom called you Alan.

  The bathroom looks normal. I hit the light switch right away. There's the mirror over the sink, where I used to pretend to be a baseball star. And there's my reflection.

  It's got black hair. And a teardrop tattoo (which does look pretty cool, you know). And a smirk.

  I goggle at my … self?

  I reach up to touch the tattoo – and so does the guy in the mirror. I cough, and spit into the sink. So does he. I wave my hand. So does he. Cigarette in the hand, I notice. Damn! No wonder I'm coughing. Where'd that come from? I don't remember lighting it. I butt it out. So does the guy in the mirror.

  It's official. My name is still Alan, but I've turned into the
Dey

  Bummer.

  I close my eyes. Got to think. I want to shout for Mom, but I'm afraid. Am I really the Dey? And if I am, who is she? She sounded like herself, out there on the driveway, but who knows? She let me get a tattoo, after all. She let me swear at her. And what would I tell her anyway? Mom, I'm not who you think I am. Very useful, that'd be.

  When I open my eyes, I'm still there, still black-haired. At least I've lost my smirk. I yawn hugely. So does my reflection.

  Identity is tricky, said Norbert. Damn straight. Where is the little guy, anyway?

  “Norbert,” I say out loud. “Norbert, help!”

  I don't feel anything in my nose. No tickle or spark of life.

  I walk slowly to my room, fall back onto the bed, and feel the world spin underneath me. I'm tired and scared and confused. All I can think of is that maybe things will look different in the morning. I'm numb.

  I don't want to be here. It's home and not home. I can't understand it. I can't deal with it. It's way worse than Jupiter. At least I was me, there. I was a hero. And I had friends.

  Somewhere, a cell phone is ringing. I recognize the tune: the theme song from The Simpsons. It's my cell phone. Where's it coming from? I keep my phone in my pocket, usually. I didn't take it on the camping trip, and I can't remember where I left it.

  It keeps ringing. Seems nearby, but I can't move my arm. Can't … move.

  I realize that I'm asleep, and frozen. You know the feeling when you're dozing in the middle of the afternoon, and you can't get up? It's like you're close to the surface of consciousness, but you can't break through. You can hear the birds, or the traffic, or the TV; you decide to get up; you can't do it.

  You must know this feeling. I get it all the time. You start to panic. You concentrate all your willpower, all your energy on your eyelids. One … two … three … OPEN! And there you are, lying peacefully on the couch, with your heart doing a drum solo and your face covered in sweat.

  That's exactly what happens to me now, except that when I wake up I'm not on a couch. And my face isn't covered in sweat.

  I'm lying on the grass, and my face is covered in rainwater. And there are four knights in armor staring down at me. “Who am I?” I say.

  I know it should be “Where am I?” but I know where I am. I'm back on Jupiter.

  “Who are you?” says Sir Mount. “Why, you're the boy who flew here, and beat the Black Dey of Ich. You're our master. You're the new Dey, what?”

  “And then you got struck by lightning, what?” says Sir Mise.

  “What, what?” say the other two knights.

  They help me up. The storm system seems to have moved away. The rain has stopped.

  “Are you feeling all right, Dey?” asks Sir Mount.

  “Call me Alan,” I say. “It's my name.”

  So waking up at home was a dream. The minivan, the bedroom, the reflection with the tattoo and black hair weren't real. Thank heavens.

  I feel fine. My limbs work, my head is clear. The lightning doesn't seem to have hurt me at all. My sword is lying on the grass beside me. I kneel to pick it up, and almost drop it in surprise. It's warm to the touch. And bright – so bright I blink. The lightning bolt took off all the rust.

  What a beauty it is.

  My cell phone rings. The knights stand away, looking puzzled.

  “How are you making that music?” asks Sir Mise.

  “It's a mystery, what?” says Sir Mount, pulling his half-mustache.

  “No mystery,” I say. “It's coming from my pocket.”

  “Ah, musical pockets,” says Sir Prise. “Surprising, what?”

  “Vey.”

  They go back to the picnic table.

  Last time I put my hand in the pocket of my bathrobe, I found an old baseball card of mine. This time I find my phone. I open it.

  “Hello?”

  –Dingwall? Is that you? About time you answered! I've been calling and calling. What have you been up to?

  “Norbert! It's you!”

  –Of course, it's me. Who were you expecting – Queen Latifah?

  Am I happy to hear his voice! “Norbert, you wouldn't believe the dream I had. I was back home, only I wasn't me. I was –”

  –Shut up, Dingwall. There's no time for this. Tell me all about your dream after you come and get us!

  “Where are you?”

  –In the castle, of course. Way upstairs in the tower, in one of those proteor cages. Nerissa's here too. And the rocking horse. Are you going to rescue us, or what? I can guide you most of the way.

  I laugh. I haven't laughed in a while. Even though I'll shortly be going into danger, facing the Dey and his minions again, and the Scourge, and who knows what else, I laugh. With Norbert's voice in my ear, I'm not alone.

  I walk to the edge of the pool. The steps are in front of me. I'm holding my sword up. Its silver-clean blade is as bright as a mirror. I check out my reflection. The hair is red. The expression is hopeful.

  The face is mine.

  “Here goes!” I say.

  And I jump into the pool.

  Glossary – If you're interested

  AMYG DALE—The AMYGDALA is a gray oblong at the front of the temporal lobe of the brain.

  BOGWAY FEN—Fenway Park is the home of the Boston Red Sox baseball team. Its high left-field wall is known as the Green Monster.

  HIPPO CAMPGROUNDS—The HIPPOCAMPUS is a ridge in the floor of the side of the brain, and plays an important role in memory.

  ICH—the German word for “I” or “ego,” the rational part of the psyche that tries to reconcile inner and outer drives. Topographically, it extends down into the id.

  ID—In Freudian psychology, the id is the swamp of the mind, where all the irrational and body-centered impulses are stewed together.

  LEFT AND RIGHT HEMISPHERES—The two halves of the cerebrum.

  OPTIC CHASM—The OPTIC CHIASM is the place in the brain where the two optic nerves cross over each other.

  PARIETAL RIVER—The PARIETAL LOBE receives and processes sensory information. The PARIETAL FISSURE divides it.

  TOPOGRAPHICAL—a way of subdividing the surface. Freud's topographical theory subdivided the brain into three sections: the preconscious, the conscious, and the unconscious.

  Copyright © 2004 by Richard Scrimger

  Published in Canada by Tundra Books,

  75 Sherbourne Street, Toronto, Ontario M5A 2P9

  Published in the United States by Tundra Books of Northern New York,

  P.O. Box 1030, Plattsburgh, New York 12901

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2004106596

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher – or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency – is an infringement of the copyright law.

  National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Scrimger, Richard, 1957-

  The boy from Earth / Richard Scrimger.

  eISBN: 978-1-77049-045-1

  I. Title.

  PS8587.C745B69 2004 jC813'.54 C2004-902772-7

  We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP) and that of the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Media Development Corporation's Ontario Book Initiative. We further acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program.

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