How to Curse in Hieroglyphics

by Lesley Livingston

  “This is CrocPot calling FlyBoy and FlickChicks!” he said frantically. “Come in Flyboy and FlickChicks … this is CrocPot calling. Do you read? Over. I said do you—?”

  “FlickChick-Tee here, CrocPot,” Tweed’s voice cut in. She actually sounded a little flustered. “We read you. Over.”

  After a brief exchange, Artie had the final piece of information he needed to set his plan in motion. He asked Zahara how near she needed to be to the amulet to make the magic work, and she told him that she only needed to be close enough to see it.

  Well, Artie was about to make sure she saw it, all right.

  And that it was far enough away from the carnival when she did. Pilot had guessed earlier that she’d need a good fifty or sixty yards clear on all sides—about half the length of a football field. They wouldn’t get that kind of clear, open space at the carnival. Not on the carnival grounds. But in the air above the carnival?

  While Artie was working out the logistics in his head, the Colonel suddenly burst through the crowd right in front of him, his face red with fury. He grabbed Artie by the wrist. Artie yelped in pain, exclaimed “Glaack!” and dropped the handset. Then he bit the Colonel and took off running again when he let go. As he ran, Artie yelled a garbled version of his plan to Delmer over his shoulder, hoping against hope the carny would understand.

  Legs pumping, Artie tore through the crowd, heading straight toward the cannon. In the distance, he heard Delmer’s frantic voice yelling into the walkie-talkie: “Get that plane up in the air! Get her up and over carnival airspace ASAP!”

  When he got close enough, Artie saw that there was a mechanism on the side of the cannon’s base that allowed the barrel to be raised or lowered. Helping out around his parents’ gas station garage had given Artie a pretty good understanding of mechanical things—plus the helpful, comically exaggerated UP and DOWN arrows on the cannon’s levers were a pretty big clue. Artie figured it out: once the Human Cannonball climbed down into the barrel, Artie guessed that an assistant—probably a pretty girl in a sparkly costume—would activate the lever that raised the barrel to aim it at a net on the far side of the midway. Once in position, a powerful jet of compressed air (made to look like gunpowder with the addition of fireworks and smoke-and-sparkle) would blast the stuntman into the sky.

  Artie clambered up onto the platform and set the mechanism to point the cannon not at the net, but right straight up at the heavens. Then he ran around to the cannon’s mouth and, winding up Babe Ruth-style, pitched the Eye of Horus at the barrel.

  Only this time, it was more like “Bob Ruth”—Artie’s aim, which he’d been so proud of earlier, was off.

  Not that it was really his fault, of course. Artie’s aim was off because Colonel Dudley had tackled him just as the medallion was leaving his hand. The two of them landed in a tumbling heap on the cannon stage while, off to one side, Artie heard the muffled shouts of a crowd of carnival-goers cheering on the unscheduled bout of “alligator wrestling.” He thrashed his tail and wriggled free of the Colonel, who couldn’t seem to get a grip on Artie’s scale-armoured hide. Artie looked up to see that the amulet was caught on a hook at the mouth of the cannon where the Human Cannonball hung his helmet when he wasn’t using it. The Eye of Horus swung gently, knocking against the flame-painted headgear, as the cannon slowly began to crank upward.

  “Glaack!” Artie shouted for the second time in just a few minutes.

  He jumped to his feet and took a flying leap for the barrel, catching it with his clawed fingers, and he hung on tight as the cannon lifted him into the air. It occurred to him, not for the first time since Zahara had emerged from her sarcophagus, that being transformed into a turbo-charged monster definitely had its perks. He’d have to remember that the next time Cheryl and Tweed cast him in a villainous role in a game of ACTION!!

  When the cannon barrel was pointing straight up into the sky, Artie struggled to pull himself up and made a desperate lunge for the amulet. But the Colonel had climbed up the opposite side of the barrel, where there was an emergency ladder, and now stood teetering on the top rung. His face split in a triumphant, evil grin as he grabbed first the amulet, and then Artie.

  “You’ll make a fine addition to my freak show!” he crowed.

  Somehow, in all the chaos of the carnival, Artie still managed to hear the drone of Pilot’s plane, coming in low.

  “Bandit at six o’clock!” Artie shouted, pointing behind the Colonel, inspired by Cheryl’s hero patter of earlier that evening.

  Startled, Colonel Dudley lost his balance. His arms windmilled for a moment and then, with barely a yelp, the carnival shyster showman and all-around bad guy toppled into the cannon barrel, still clutching the amulet.

  Well, that was that, Artie thought. There was only one thing left for him to do. He reached over and, with one claw, snagged the chinstrap of the Human Cannonball’s helmet. Peering down into the black depths of the Cannon’s tall barrel, he could see the Colonel glaring up at him, the Eye of Horus clutched in his shaking fist, a litany of bad words pouring from his mouth to bounce and echo off the cannon walls. Artie shook his head and tsked. Then he dropped the helmet down the barrel. He heard it bonk off Dudley’s head, followed by more bad language in a British accent.

  “If I were you,” Artie called, “I’d shtrap that helmet on!”

  Then he slid down the barrel of the cannon as if it were a fireman’s pole, his gator claws screeching worse than fingernails on a chalkboard and gouging little curls in the cannon’s fiery paint job. His feet hit the deck and he leaped for the comically oversized bright-red button that said “KA-BLAAAMM!!!” on it.

  Which, of course, led to a mighty …

  KA–BLAAAMM!!!

  Somehow, Pilot heard the blast of the carnival’s cannon, even over the protesting whine of the plane’s engine. It was almost as if he could feel it in his bones. He saw the now-familiar flame-painted helmet of the Human Cannonball soaring up, up into the sky in the distance, but he knew that something was different this time. He knew that this was the signal that Delmer had told him to watch for. More than that.

  “Look!” he shouted over the noise of the plane’s engine at Zahara, who was crouching amongst the boxes of her stuff in the cargo space. She clambered forward into the cockpit and focused her gaze where Pilot was pointing. The Cannonball wasn’t wearing his usual orange-and-red jumpsuit. And he was shooting straight up into the sky, instead of out over the carnival at an angle. And he seemed to be grasping a torch. Or a lantern. Or something. Something that glowed with a fierce green light—

  “Aah!” shouted Zahara as the scarab beetle she held tightly in her fist began to glow with the same light. “Horus!” She pointed.

  Now Pilot saw the figure of a man hovering, suspended like a spider at the centre of a web of magical energy that had suddenly appeared dead ahead. Not Horus, he thought, but Colonel Winchester P. Q. Dudley himself. Pilot recognized him by his ridiculous gold-braided uniform. Held motionless in the dark skies, immune to the forces of gravity.

  Zahara spoke a string of words that Pilot couldn’t understand and didn’t have time to ask about, because suddenly the plane began to buck and twist. Buffeted by gales from all sides, it was all Pilot could do to hold his plane even halfway steady as the sky in front of them burst open, and a brilliant light poured through, engulfing the helmeted figure holding the amulet and sweeping outward in a whirlpool circle directly above the carnival. Pilot threw a hand up in front of his face to keep from being blinded and banked the plane to the right, pulling up and above the fiery phenomenon. He circled the plane around the portal vortex as Zahara clambered into the back. When she threw the side door open, the sudden rush of wind knocked the plane and its occupants around. The plane was taking a real bruising, and the shimmy Pilot had been worried about was starting to make the wings rattle. They were losing altitude, drifting dangerously close to the Aaru portal.

  Pilot clenched his teeth and gripped the steering yoke for all
he was worth. “Come on …” he begged the balky machine as the knuckles on his hands turned a bloodless white. “Come on, help me out here, will ya? I know you and I don’t always see eye to eye, but this is for a good cause!”

  And then, almost as if the plane had heard him, the engine seemed to rally and the propeller bit the air. The rugged little craft climbed higher in the sky, holding its own, as Zahara began off-loading her worldly goods into the eye of the otherworldly storm. Crackles and flickers of the vortex’s energy danced over the panel, and Pilot felt as if there were tiny forks of lightning dancing over his own skin. Electric butterflies danced in the pit of his stomach. Over his shoulder, he heard a strange sound—an eerie keening that wavered and then twisted in his ear, morphing into a meow. He glanced back and saw a sleek orange-and-yellow-striped cat standing in the middle of the almost empty cargo area, and for a panicked instant, he thought that one of Miss Parks’s cats had somehow managed to stow away. But then he saw the richly jewelled collar around its neck and a frayed length of bandage that was draped around the creature’s tail.

  “Hello, Isis,” Pilot called, turning back to the controls as the plane bucked again, riding the turbulence like a wave. “Nice to meetcha!”

  Through the side window of the cockpit, Pilot saw the last crate of goods tumble through the air to be swallowed up with a flash. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder and he glanced back to see Zahara-Safiya standing behind his seat, Isis tucked under one arm, purring loudly enough to be heard over the chaos outside. The Princess’s eyes were shining with excitement. And gratitude. Her mouth curved into a small smile and she said, in a halting voice, “Th-aank ye-ooh. Aa-ll ye-ooh.”

  “I’ll pass that on,” he said, and grinned back at her. “And you’re welcome! Have a good trip, Princess …”

  She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, and Pilot felt himself instantly turning beet red. Again.

  “Dang it,” he muttered, turning his attention back to the plane when the engine growled angrily. “Now don’t you go gettin’ jealous on me! You’re my best girl and you know it. Just … get me back on the ground when this is all over and I promise an oil change and an engine tune-up.”

  Pilot saw a last flash of movement out the side window as Zahara and Isis sailed gracefully through the air. As they disappeared through the portal, he heard a loud bang and the plane bucked sharply. A quick glance told him that the engine was belching flame. Then a deafening, thunderous roar from the vortex blew the glass out from the plane’s side window. The rush of wind tore the hat from Pilot’s head and he saw it tumble away through the air, disappearing in the plume of oily black smoke that poured from beneath the engine casing. There was another blinding flash of light that surged outward to engulf the plane. Pilot clung grimly to the controls as, deaf and blind, he felt his plane spiralling out of control and into the night.

  “Holy moly!” Tweed exclaimed as Cheryl slewed the Moviemobile to a screeching stop right at the carnival gates, just in time for the twins to see Colonel Winchester P. Q. Dudley’s brand-new act—as the carnival’s newest Human Cannonball. In a burst of purple smoke and green and gold sparks, he rocketed into the air, all to the delight of the Wiggins carnival patrons, who still clearly thought they were being treated to a grandly inventive audience-participation theatre experience. They ooh ed and aahed, gasping with delight when the Colonel hovered in the night sky as a brilliant pale-green light exploded out like fireworks … and they held their breath when they saw a sturdy little crop-duster come flying out of nowhere, banking toward the light show.

  “It’s them!” Cheryl shouted as she and Tweed leaped out of the car and grabbed the pet crates, lugging them through the carnival gates toward the midway. “It’s Pilot and Zee! We did it!”

  “She still has to get through the portal!” Tweed said. “Look!”

  Clutching a slightly freaked-out, striped orange-and-yellow kitty to her chest, Zahara stood framed in the plane’s doorway. She waved regally to all the people staring up at her, and then leaped with the fearless grace of a desert gazelle, straight into the heart of the brightness.

  A moment later, Flappy the vulture appeared and spiralled in after her, followed by a swarm of flaming green scarab beetles. There was a blinding flash and a mighty roar as a cyclone wind funnelled up into the sky. The twins heard the whine of the plane’s engine as Pilot struggled to keep it from being sucked into the portal along with the Princess and her stuff.

  Then there was a mighty bang, and smoke and flame belched from the plane’s engine. The plane looked as though it was struggling to maintain altitude, and the wicked shimmy Pilot had told them of earlier seemed to have become more of a terrible shuddering. The light from the portal was starting to pulse madly, the portal itself expanding and contracting. It reminded Cheryl of a cat working up a giant hairball—an analogy that was rendered all the more vivid a moment later when the mystical gateway suddenly made a noise like PAH-TOOIEE! and spat Colonel Dudley out of the sky, along with an assortment of carnival items that apparently had no place in the Egyptian paradise of Aaru.

  The artifacts exploded outward like fireworks sparks, showering the countryside for miles around with bits of carnival junk. But the Colonel shot like a bullet through the night, landing in the centre of the carnival’s exhibit tent roof, collapsing the canvas structure inward on top of his thrashing, howling self.

  The crowd roared.

  The sky lit up like a gazillion flashbulbs exploding, momentarily blinding the crowd. And Cheryl and Tweed.

  When, after a few moments of blinking and eye-rubbing, their vision returned, the girls looked up to see the portal was shut.

  And Pilot’s plane was gone.

  Then, out of the darkness, spiralling down to earth like a wounded bird, they saw his hat. The gold pilot’s wings glinted in the moonlight as it landed at Cheryl’s feet, a wisp of smoke trailing upward from the scorched brim.

  Cheryl gasped, and Tweed put a hand to her mouth, whispering, “Oh no …”

  On the ground beside the girls, the cat carriers bounced and jittered across the dusty packed earth. There was a moment of silence, and then the combined voices of the Bottoms boys, minus the reptilian growling, rose in protest. Bingo drummed his little pink fists against his cage door, and Cheryl and Tweed snapped out of their shock at seeing the smouldering proof of Pilot’s grim fate to deal with the situation at hand. Reaching down, they sprung the latches on the carriers and jumped aside as the toddlers burst forth.

  Squealing and giggling like tiny maniacs, John, Paul, George and Bingo tore across the carnival, heading toward the concession stands, where the twins could see Mr. Bottoms still sampling carnival cuisine. The backsides of all four pairs of denim overalls were flapping like trap doors—the seams having split on account of the crocodile tails they’d sprouted—but the aptly named Bottoms boys didn’t seem to mind the breeze. It was a sight that normally would have called for a witty exchange of dialogue from the twins. But, in that moment, Cheryl and Tweed were at a singular loss for words.

  Cheryl bent down and picked up Pilot’s cap.

  The “show” was over. The skies over the carnival were calm and clear and velvet black. And empty. Cheryl’s lower lip trembled, and Tweed put a hand on her shoulder.

  “Come on,” she said, blinking rapidly. “We have to get the car back to the drive-in.”

  “But—”

  “I know. There’s nothing we can do about it this minute. Keep it together, partner. Look!”

  She pointed to where Artie was loping toward them, hair a floppy mess, glasses askew, overalls covered in dirt and grass stains, but once more snout-less, and with not a scale to be seen. Zahara was as good as her word and Artie was a real boy again. But the triumphant grin on his face evaporated when he saw the cap in Cheryl’s hands.

  “Let’s go, Shrim—I mean … Artie,” Cheryl said, picking up one empty pet crate as Tweed hefted the other one. “That was good work. But Tweed’s right, this n
ight’s not over yet, and we’ve still got work to do.”

  Artie blinked and nodded.

  They all piled into the Moviemobile before any of the carnival patrons, most of whom seemed a bit dazed and confused by what they’d just seen, noticed the under-aged drivers. As casually as possible, Cheryl backed the Moviemobile out of the carnival’s front gate. Then she spun in a donut and they shot out of the field, back toward the other side of the highway, and home.

  The Starlight Paradise lot was just as empty of automobiles as when they’d left it—what seemed like days earlier but was really only a couple of hours. Even without the cars, though, there was one stall occupied … by a somewhat beat-up-looking crop-duster that sat in the middle of the back row! The cord from one of the drive-in’s speakers stretched up from its post to disappear through the space where the glass had been blown out of the cockpit’s side window, as if the occupant was waiting for the movie to start.

  Cheryl and Tweed and Artie were agog as the Moviemobile rolled to a stop near the plane and they saw Pilot’s face pop up in the empty window frame. He grinned and tossed the trio a jaunty wave, looking for all the world like he’d been just hanging around, wondering what was taking them so long.

  Not to be outdone by Pilot’s casual, cool hero act—especially considering the fact that he’d just scared the living daylights out of them—Cheryl and Tweed and Artie, as if by silent accord, slowly climbed out of the Moviemobile and sauntered (just as cool and casual and hero-y) in the direction of the plane.

  “I hear there’s a fine triple bill playing here this weekend,” Pilot drawled.

  “Bet it beats the heck outta that live-action stuff,” Artie said with a grin.

  “Best entertainment around,” Tweed agreed. “Plus, y’know, popcorn …”

  “You dropped your hat,” Cheryl said.