by Henry Clark
“That was close,” she said as she stepped down off the veggie-crisper drawer.
“Hi-yah!” The girl with the bandaged head came out of nowhere and slammed the door shut as she bolted to the opposite side of the room.
“No! He’s still in there!” I jumped to my feet, swept the door back open, and threw myself forward. I collided with cold, hard shelving and staggered backward in a shower of soda cans and Tupperware containers.
The connection was broken.
Drew hadn’t made it.
We had left him in Congroo.
CHAPTER 15
NO HOUR OF TWELVE
I got to my feet and started shifting the contents of the fridge back and forth, searching for my friend. He wasn’t behind the marmalade; there was no sign of him anywhere near the cream cheese—
Preffy pulled me away.
“It’s no good,” he said. “He can’t get through, and I can’t go back. Not until we open another door. Which, if what you say about Magic Minutes is true, won’t be until sometime tonight.”
The girl with the bandaged head was backed into a corner, whimpering. She suddenly found her voice and began to scream. Modesty jumped on her and put a hand over her mouth.
“Prudence,” Modesty whispered fiercely. “It’s me. Your sister. You hit your head with a machete. You’re hallucinating. I don’t know what you thought you saw, but I’m sure it wasn’t a bunch of kids falling out of the refrigerator! I’m the only one here. Please be quiet!”
“Pru?” A woman’s concerned voice came from the floor above, and a moment later, feet were pounding down the stairs.
Modesty spun Prudence around so she was facing the wall and whispered to us, “Get out the back! I’ll meet you as soon as I can at the farm stand. Move!”
The thought that we might be able to save Drew when the next Magic Minute rolled around energized me. I grabbed Pre and dragged him out the back door.
“It’s so nice and warm here!” he declared as we emerged into a mild September afternoon. That didn’t stop him from flipping his hood over his head, though. I slipped out of the coat Modesty had lent me and left it draped over a bush near the back steps. A gate in the backyard fence led to a path between houses that, eventually, got us to the street.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” Pre said once we had gotten far enough from Modesty’s place that our voices couldn’t be overheard.
“We’ll get him back,” I assured him—and myself—as we started down a back road with no sidewalks and very few houses. If I hadn’t been walking with a kid dressed as a monk, I would have taken the main roads all the way to Sapling Farm. But this seemed like the wiser route.
It wasn’t.
We turned the corner onto Elm Street and ran smack into Mace Croyden and his buddy Raymond Chikletts. A hedge had blocked my view; otherwise, I would have turned us around before it was too late.
“Hey, Sap! What’s up?” Mace wasn’t as tall as I was, but he was wider, and most of it was muscle, especially the area between his ears. Ray stood behind him, moving his jaw around as if he was trying to avoid swallowing something disgusting.
“Hi, Mason,” I said uneasily.
“I hear your farm’s failing big-time!” Mace gave me a huge grin. “And this is the last time you and your loser family are gonna do the Halloween thing. Same garbage as last year?” He reached over and flicked Pre’s hood back. “Whoa!” Mace did a mock cringe. “I expected a skull! Ugly’s okay, though. Great mask. Toads are usually a darker green, though.” He pinched Pre’s cheek. “Oh! It’s your face. Sorry about that. I mean, really, it’s something to be sorry about.”
“We have to get going,” I told him and started past. He stopped me with his hand.
“You gotta pay the toll, Sap. Both of you. Now… what would be the toll for walking down Elm?” He glanced at Ray, who was still doing cowlike things with his jaw. “Oh yeah. You can only go down Elm if you both have gum in your hair.”
Mace extended an open palm toward Ray. Ray looked down at it as if he had never seen a hand before.
“What?” said Ray.
“Your gum,” Mace prompted.
“What gum?”
Mace turned fully toward his friend. I nudged Pre along.
“The gum you’re chewing.”
“I’m not chewing gum.”
“What have you got in your mouth?”
“My tongue!”
“You were chewing!”
“I’m trying to get jerky out of my teeth.”
“When did you have jerky?”
“Last night. No, wait. Night before.”
“Well, put some gum in your mouth and start chewing!”
“You’ve got gum?”
“No!”
“Neither do I!”
And by that time, Pre and I were far enough away that the rest of the conversation was lost.
“Hey!” Mace shouted after us. “Catch ya tomorrow!”
“Am I ugly?” asked Pre.
“Not even remotely,” I assured him, and steered us around the corner onto Crabtree. “And my family aren’t losers. At least, most of them aren’t.”
“It’s not your fault your friend got left behind,” Pre said, as if he were reading my mind. “He was lingering. I think he wanted to see more of the library.”
“Yeah, Drew loves libraries,” I said. “That’s why he’s so smart. He’s up to level thirty-three in Castle Conundrum—that’s a game—and that takes a lot of problem-solving. He knew enough to hit the two-headed ogre with the giant tuning fork. He’s smart, and he has his phone. There’s a voice recording of the door-opening spell on it, and he heard you say the spell has to be performed from both sides in order for it to work. So at one twenty-three tonight, I’m sure he’ll try it. We’ll try it, too, and a door will open, and the two of you will switch places.”
“Are Drew’s parents living?”
It was such an unexpected question, I paused in mid-step.
“Uh, yeah. Unless something horrible’s happened since yesterday. Why would you ask?”
“How are you going to tell them their son is missing?”
Shoot. I hadn’t thought of that. But—“Oh! I don’t have to tell them for another two days. Drew’s supposed to be sleeping over my place tonight and tomorrow. His parents won’t miss him until Tuesday afternoon. By that time, he’ll be back.”
“Convenient.”
“Sometimes you get a break. I’ll tell my parents he changed his mind.” We made a left down Hemlock. “You don’t think that golem thing will hurt him, do you?”
“Logem. I’m sure Oöm Lout only sent it ahead to make sure we wouldn’t leave the tower. He’ll probably be upset that I’m not there, but I don’t think he’ll take it out on Drew. And I’m sure Master Index will be returning to the tower any time now; you heard Oöm Lout assure me the arrest was a misunderstanding.”
I didn’t share Pre’s opinion of Lout. But for Drew’s sake, I hoped I was wrong.
“Is that a flying machine?” Pre stopped dead and stared at a bright-red biplane bobbing over the fields of the Renshaw farm. I noticed, for the first time, a big FOR SALE sign on the farm’s entrance road.
“It’s a crop duster,” I informed him
“You dust your crops! Keeping the leaves clean probably makes them grow better. The World of Science is so amazing. What keeps it in the air?”
“The wings are flat on the bottom and curved on top,” I said, surprised that I knew. “If the plane is moving fast enough, this makes the pressure of the air greater on the underside, and the air lifts it off the ground.”
“Incredible.”
“It took us a long time to figure it out.”
We followed Hemlock to Spruce, then cut through a grove of trees at the far end of the Sapling farm wheat field. It wasn’t my favorite part of the farm. High-tension electrical transmission towers stretched power lines north and south down the middle of it; the wheat that grew below the lin
es never seemed as healthy as the wheat on either side. I hurried us along as we passed beneath the faintly humming lines but then slowed our pace as we approached the section of the field I liked the very least.
“Was that thing struck by lightning?” asked Pre as the remains of the Fireball 50 loomed in front of us. “Or was it hit by some kind of superweapon during a battle between scientists?”
“That damage was done by an eleven-year-old boy,” I told him.
“He must be very powerful!”
“Yeah, you wouldn’t want to mess with him.” I swiped my finger along the harvester’s side. It made a streak in the soot. I briefly considered writing BOO! in six-foot letters.
My mom still wrote monthly checks to the bank, paying off something we’d never be able to use again. When my brother, Glen, was learning to drive and he backed over our mailbox, the next day he bought a new box, sank a new post, and it was all repaired by the time the mail arrived. Glen had had it easy. I couldn’t just pick up a new harvester at the hardware store. “Hey!” I had a thought. “Do you know a spell that could fix it?”
Pre stopped and gave the hulk a good hard look. Then he shook his head. “Trying to use magic to repair something from the World of Science would be incredibly dangerous. There’s no telling what might happen.”
“We’ve used magic to paint some of our rooms,” I said.
“Did you get the color you wanted?”
“Uh. I didn’t realize I had a choice.”
Pre shrugged. “See?”
It was too bad. If we failed to get Elwood Davy to stop making DavyTrons, it would have been nice, at least, to have been able to fix the harvester. That way… I finished the thought and didn’t like the ending. That way, Elwood Davy could buy the harvester when he bought the farm. My parents wouldn’t be needing it.
We crossed Route 9 to the farm stand. The door of our mailbox was hanging open, and I punched it as hard as I could to close it. Then I punched the side of the box for no good reason.
Modesty was waiting for us.
“Took you long enough,” she said. She was sitting on one of the picnic tables. “Now, about Drew. I’ve been thinking—”
“We’re going to get him back at one twenty-three tonight,” I said, “when he and I both play the Magic Bite for door opening.”
“Right.” She sounded disappointed, maybe because I’d gotten to it first. “That’s what I was thinking. You’re okay?”
“I’m fine. This will work.”
“Good.” She pointed to the back of the farm stand. “I towed your bike.” My clunker was barely visible behind the boxes of Davy’s Deluxe Tomato Juice. Modesty’s own bike leaned against a stack of apple crates. “I stowed Drew’s in our toolshed so Mum wouldn’t notice. I couldn’t tow them both.”
“Thanks,” I said, realizing she hadn’t had to do it.
“And…” She tilted her head back and stared at the sky. “Did you see the storm cloud I materialized at two thirty-four?”
I looked where she was looking.
“No,” I said.
“No, you didn’t,” she agreed. “I played the Magic Bite, and nothing happened. If magic works at two thirty-four in the morning—”
“It does,” I assured her.
“It doesn’t work at two thirty-four in the afternoon. We’ll check out three forty-five and four fifty-six, but I’m beginning to think magic only works in the morning.”
“And twelve thirty-four in the afternoon,” I reminded her.
“There’s no such time,” Pre said quietly.
“What?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly.
“I said, there’s no such time as twelve thirty-four,” he clarified.
“Of course there is,” replied Modesty. “It’s right between twelve thirty-three and twelve thirty-five. You can’t miss it.”
“But there’s no hour of twelve,” Pre insisted. “There are only the hours one through eight and then the middle one through eight and then the final one through eight.”
“I have no idea what you’re saying,” said Modesty. “It’s like the gobbledygook in one of your incantations.”
“Wait,” I said, working it out. “I think what he’s saying is… in Congroo, they’ve divided the day into three eight-hour segments. Unlike here, where we’ve divided it into two twelve-hour segments. Have I got that right?”
“Yes.” Pre nodded approvingly. “The Great Horologist War was fought over whether to divide the day into four six-hour segments or three eight-hour segments. Oh, with a third group of fanatics who wanted twelve two-hour segments, which most historians agree would have been total chaos. The eight-hour segmentists won. Do you really divide your days into two twelve-hour halves? Is there a scientifical reason?”
“Not that I know of,” I said. “The first twelve hours are called AM; the second twelve are called PM. Don’t ask me why.”
“In Congroo, the first eight hours are called BB—Before Breakfast. The second eight hours are BD—Before Dinner. And the final eight hours are BMS—Before Midnight Snack.”
“So if it’s twelve thirty-four PM here,” said Modesty, “what time is it in Congroo?”
Pre’s brow furrowed as he worked it out.
“Twelve thirty-four PM here would be four thirty-four BD in Congroo.”
Modesty thought about that for a moment, then shook her head. “That doesn’t help.”
“Why would it?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “It just seems to me that Congroo being on an eight-hour clock and us being on a twelve-hour clock might have something to do with why Magic Minutes only work in the four hours following midnight and not in the four hours following noontime—except for twelve thirty-four. Twelve thirty-four may be the key to the whole thing, although I can’t imagine how. We’re missing something, but I can’t figure out what it is.”
“Let me get this straight,” said Pre. “Magic only works here at one twenty-three AM, two thirty-four AM, and twelve thirty-four PM?”
“And three forty-five and four fifty-six AM,” said Modesty.
“That’s only five minutes each day,” Pre said thoughtfully. “That doesn’t sound right. Seven is a much more magical number. There are seven days in a week, seven seas, seven continents, seven Insights of Irksome—”
“Seven dwarfs, seven samurai, seven swans a-swimmin’,” Modesty interrupted. “Yeah, seven comes up a lot. You think there should be seven Magic Minutes? I don’t see what the other two minutes would be; there are no other times that match the pattern.”
We thought about that for a moment. Then Modesty upended her rhinoceros backpack and spilled an array of clothing onto the picnic table. “Preffy, I brought some clothes for you. These belong to my sister Verity. She lies about her clothing sizes, but you and she look pretty close. Those robes you’re wearing might attract unwanted attention.”
“They might,” I agreed, remembering Mace.
“These blue legging things and the black tunic with the weird rodent creature on it are nice,” said Pre, holding up a pair of jeans and a Mickey Mouse sweatshirt.
“They’re yours.” Modesty stuffed the leftover clothing back in her bag. Pre studied the jeans, looked awestruck when I showed him how the zipper worked, then sat and pulled the pants on under his robe. He pulled the robe off over his head, put on the sweatshirt, and suddenly looked like a typical Disarray middle school student. Except, possibly, for the greenish complexion.
“Thank you,” he said to Modesty. “That was very thoughtful of you.”
“Yes, it was,” Modesty agreed.
“But now,” said Pre, rolling up his robe and tucking it under one arm, “we have to figure out how we’re going to save Congroo. That’s the important thing. We need a plan.”
“Already got one,” Modesty said, waving her hand nonchalantly. “I came up with it on the way over. We’re going to need an electric drill, a piece of wire, and two dozen carrots.”
CHAPTER
16
GNICHE VERSUS NICHE
Or maybe parsnips,” Modesty added after thinking for a moment. “If they’re the ones I’m thinking of. Are parsnips the ones that look like carrots, only they’re white instead of orange?”
“Yeah,” I said. “We’ve got a whole bin of them. They’re not big sellers.”
“The veggies can’t be from the farm stand,” Modesty informed me. “They have to be made in a DavyTron. We really should get started.”
Without further explanation, she slid from her perch on the picnic table and headed for the barn, where the sound of power tools suggested it might be a good place to find a drill. Preffy and I trotted after her.
My dad and the high schoolers were up on ladders, outlining the barn with twinkly orange lights. At the foot of one of the ladders, an open toolbox held a spare rechargeable drill. Since it didn’t seem to be needed, I grabbed it, along with a box of drill bits. I tossed a spool of wire to Modesty, and she darted in the direction of the farmhouse.
“Are we doing science?” asked Pre.
“Possibly,” I said, not really sure what we were doing. “There’s a DavyTron in the farm-stand office!” I shouted after Modesty, and she altered course, retrieving her backpack from the picnic table as she trotted past. Pre paused to study Artie, the chainsaw maniac, for a moment, then took off after her. I glanced up at my dad to see if I needed to wave, which I did, since he was looking down at me somewhat quizzically. We exchanged smiles, and off I went.
I broke into a run, arrived at the office door just as Modesty got there, and made sure I went in first. To my relief, the room was empty.
Modesty went straight to the DavyTron.
“I think maybe a mix,” she said, bending down to study the control panel. “Maybe a dozen carrots and a dozen parsnips. Holy cow. Your DavyTron can make up to six carrots at once. That’s a time-saver!”
She punched in a code, the can of tomato juice on top of the DavyTron went glug, and the machine started making carrots.
