by Henry Clark
Pre moved to one corner of the cab and began mumbling to himself.
“What—?” I started to ask him what he had said.
He held up a hand. “I’m envisioning spells,” he explained as the tower jumped across Oakhurst Road and we nearly bounced out of the cab. “Magic is working here now; even if I’m not much good at it, I should have a few spells set up, ready to go, just in case. After all—sometimes I get it right.” He bowed his head, turned away, and continued to mumble.
The tower hopped and leaped and sprinted past trees and houses that glowed with the ghostly light of surplus magic. When it got to the high-tension wires, it skipped the limbo in favor of leaning to one side and ducking under, which was quicker but nearly hurled us out the window. We hugged the roof supports, and a few moments later, we arrived at the Sapling Farm corn maze. The tower bent to within a few feet of the ground, and the three of us slipped out. It straightened to its full height, took two dignified steps to the left, and resumed its normal place. I noticed dew was clinging to it. Then I realized it wasn’t dew: It was perspiration.
I looked across Route 9 to the wheat field. Once all the magic drained back to Congroo, there would be absolutely no way I could fix the Fireball 50.
Even if I had my phone.
“The entrance to the maze doesn’t look right,” said Modesty.
I turned, and a chill ran down my spine.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Artie’s missing.”
“Artie?” said Pre.
“The chainsaw maniac.”
The cornstalks at the maze’s entrance rustled. Artie, the roughly carved ten-foot-tall chainsaw maniac, lumbered into view. It was holding its wooden chainsaw high over its wooden head.
It turned to face us, crouched with its legs solidly apart, and blocked our path.
CHAPTER 30
THIS DRAGON’S ON FIRE
The onetime stump lowered the wooden chainsaw and twisted it sideways, as if it were getting ready to cut down a tree. Which was pretty ironic, for a stump. It tilted its head to one side and stared at us.
“I don’t think it realizes that’s not a real chainsaw,” said Modesty.
“And what, exactly, is a chainsaw?”
The familiar voice came from inside the maze. A moment later, Oöm Lout strutted around the corner and stood next to Artie. The hemi-semi-demi-director was wearing a black robe and a purple cape with a collar that fanned out behind his ears like a cobra’s hood. He might as well have been wearing a T-shirt that said EVIL WIZARD.
“Chainsaw? Anybody?” He looked at each of us in turn.
“That thing in its hands,” I said. “That’s a chainsaw.”
“That’s what you may call it,” Lout purred. “I call it a massive wooden club with nasty sharp teeth. Capable, I would think, of inflicting bone-crushing damage. And my magically animated friend here knows how to use it. Show them!”
Artie took one step forward and slashed the saw through the air—up, down, forward, and back—like an enormous ninja doing a sword demo. Then it shouldered the saw and snapped to attention.
“It’s here to stop you if you decide to do anything foolish, like running into the maze in search of dragon ghosts.” Lout looked me up and down, a growing frown on his face. He waved his hand at the ground in front of him, said “Sarcophagus,” and a two-foot-high fluted Greek column rose out of the dirt like a mushroom. He stepped on top of it, and it made him taller than I was. He stopped frowning.
“You! Librarian!” He pointed an angry, quivering finger at Pre. “I don’t care about the rest of them, but for the trouble you’ve caused me, you must pay!”
“What have you done with Master Index?” Preffy demanded coolly.
“Oh, your head librarian is fine,” Lout assured him jovially. “His bones will heal. Although not with any help from magic. And they’ll have plenty of time to do it as he languishes in my deepest dungeon.”
“Did you kill my parents?”
Oöm Lout drew back. He waved one hand dismissively.
“No. The overturned carriage killed them. I only sent the hornet that stung the horse.”
I caught Pre as he started to lunge. I knew he would never get past the chainsaw. He struggled with me and screamed at Lout, “They were wonderful people, and you took them from me! Master Index says that only a monster would separate a child from their parents! You—are—a—monster!”
Pre twisted out of my grip and began a suicidal charge. But before he could take more than a step, he was shoved to the ground by a bloodred figure that sprinted past us from behind. The figure, covered in tomato juice, ran up to Oöm Lout and took a place at his side.
It was Spalding Wicket. He bounced on his heels and drove one fist into the palm of his opposing hand. He looked ready to get back at us for making a fool of him.
“And now we are three,” crowed Lout. “An example of how my power will grow in the future. Welcome, my faithful analogem. Now—twist the head off the one you just knocked down! You may do with the others as you see fit.”
Spalding sprang forward with outstretched hands, reaching for Pre’s throat. He hesitated. “I’m so sorry,” he said.
“Hurry it up,” growled Lout. “Redeem yourself for failing in your mission! It’s the least you can do!”
Spalding froze.
“I failed in my mission?”
“I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t.”
“Then… my mission has ended? It’s over?”
“It was a total disaster. Yes, it’s over!”
Spalding turned his head sideways and gazed up at Lout.
“Mission terminated?”
“How many times must I say it?”
“Thank you!”
Spalding stood, spun, and slammed his fist so furiously into Artie, the chainsaw splintered and went flying through the air, taking one of Artie’s hands with it. Spalding tackled the statue around the waist and forced it back into Oöm Lout, knocking the hemi-semi-demi-director off his pedestal.
“Run!” shouted Spalding. “Do what you have to do. I’ll keep these two busy. My pre-enchantments have ended. I can make my own choices at last! And this is what I choose!” He drove an uppercut into Artie’s jaw that sent splinters flying like knocked-out teeth. The former stump’s bite was now worse than its bark.
Pre got to his feet and sprinted for the maze. Modesty and I chased after him.
As I rounded the bend, I glanced back. Spalding had Oöm Lout by his cape and was twisting it around his throat. Artie was down on the ground, crawling toward the remains of the chainsaw, but Spalding’s right foot was pressed solidly on its back, and the statue wasn’t making much headway. I wondered how long Spalding could keep up the fight.
Two turns into the maze, we caught up with Pre, who was mumbling nonsense syllables as he ran. I took the lead and headed for the center, thinking that might be the best place to start looking for Phloggie’s anima. The cornstalks were glowing in the same way everything else was, so the path was easy to see. I took the shortest route, glancing every which way as I ran, searching for something that might be the soul of a dragon.
But by the time we reached the center, we had found nothing, and the center turned out to be empty, too. We padded to a halt and started searching the surrounding vegetation.
“Quiet!” Pre held up a hand.
We listened. At first, I heard nothing. Then I noticed a rapid thip-thump, thip-thump, thip-thump, like—
“The beating of a heart,” said Pre.
The plants nearest us began trembling.
Suddenly the cornstalks were thrashing to and fro, and the taller ones began braiding themselves together. They whipped back and forth as if they were caught in a twister; then they uprooted themselves and came flying at us, like missiles launched by an angry Mother Nature.
“Look out!” I shouted as the stalks hit us and started to cluster. In only a moment, we were chest deep in writhing, flailing snakelike plants.
“
Climb!” yelled Modesty as she wiggled out of the hole we were being buried in and clawed her way to the top of the rapidly growing mound.
We struggled to stay on top as plants came hurtling at us from all directions. The entire labyrinth was uprooting itself, and the stalks were converging, pressing themselves together, the same way the snow and the dust—and possibly bits of snot—had joined together to create the Dust Devil on the library tower’s balcony. The mound we were desperately trying to stay on top of suddenly sprouted a long tail in one direction and an equally long neck in the other. The neck collected more twining cornstalks and grew a head.
“The maze is sculpting itself,” I cried. “It’s becoming a—”
“Dragon!” Modesty shouted.
Enormous wings unfolded on either side of the mound, and the cornstalk dragon reared back on two legs. Its head came up to the cab of the fire tower. Somewhere I could hear my mom and dad shouting and the sound of wood splintering. The dragon crouched. It shuddered.
“Oh no!” I feared what might be coming. “Hold on!”
We dug our hands and feet into the braided stalks and secured ourselves as best as we could to the dragon’s back.
It leaped into the air, and something that big and ungainly should never have been able to fly, but fly it did. The dragon made of cornstalks soared above the fire tower, broke through a low-hanging cloud, then wheeled and started circling the farm.
“We’re supposed to slap her in the face,” said Pre.
“You think this is Phloggie’s anima?” I bellowed over the rapidly increasing breeze.
“What else could it be?” Modesty shouted back.
“We could also whack her in the butt,” Pre added. “Or just somehow give her a jolt. That’s what Delleps said. That’s supposed to send Phloggie’s spirit back into her body in Congroo. Where, I’m hoping, things will change enough to keep her alive. Help me!”
He began flailing his arms against the cornstalk body, slapping it with all his might. When we saw what he was doing, we copied him, behaving like little kids having a tantrum.
“We have to work together!” shouted Modesty. “Hit her at the same time. Count of three—one, two, three!”
We struck the dragon simultaneously, giving it everything we had. Once we got into rhythm, we kept it up, slapping the cornstalks with all our strength.
It had no effect.
“She’s too big, and we’re too small,” shouted Modesty, angrily yanking a cornstalk out of the creature’s body and shaking it. Phloggie’s anima had done a nice job of creating the look of scales by using ears of corn to cover her outer surface from head to tail. They looked like little green pillows.
“There must be something we can do!” Pre wailed.
Phloggie dropped through the clouds and dove for the farm. I suddenly had a dragon’s-eye view of the Halloween barn. The twinkling orange lights reminded me of something.
“The holiday lights!” I shouted into the up-rushing wind. “They look like—”
“Flyer-fries,” Pre finished for me. “She’s going to feed. Hold on!”
I was sure we were going to hit the barn. But at the last second, Phloggie pulled up and sailed over it, skimming the roof. She opened her cornstalk mouth and scooped up the strings of lights that outlined the building. Electrical cords snapped, sparks flew, and the lights went out. Phloggie gained altitude and whipped her head from side to side, spitting out tiny light bulbs.
“The magic glow is getting dimmer.” Modesty pointed below us.
The weird light that had bathed everything within miles of Elwood’s factory was getting softer. Even the glow from the cornstalks of Phloggie’s body was starting to fade.
“The magic’s almost gone,” cried Pre. “We’re running out of time. I’m going to crawl along the neck and try to slap her in the face!”
He stood up and took a step forward. I gave one regretful look at the burned-out harvester below and started after him.
A hand burst out of the cornstalks at Pre’s feet and grabbed him by the ankle.
Pre fell backward. Another hand broke through, and Oöm Lout clawed himself out of the stalks. He swung Pre by the leg, let go, and Pre would have gone over the side if Modesty hadn’t thrown herself forward and caught him in time. She dragged him back to us.
Oöm Lout struggled furiously out of the plant fiber and stood at his full height, blocking the path between the dragon’s neck and us. He was covered in corn silk and scratches, as if his fight to the top hadn’t been easy. Since it didn’t seem right to face him on our knees, the three of us let go of the stalks we had been gripping and got to our feet. We swayed a little, but at least it didn’t look like we were groveling.
“Oo effling iddel onthders!” Oöm Lout shouted, and I thought it might be part of a deadly incantation until he spat a baby ear of corn out of his mouth and tried again. “You meddling little monsters!”
His cape flapped in the wind from the dragon’s flight. He raised his hands over his head and clawed his fingers, as if he were getting ready to pull down lightning bolts.
Pre stepped forward and put his hands up, palms outward, like a shield.
“I’m not sure I can do this,” he whispered fiercely to us. “You may have to jump!”
“You can do it!” Modesty assured him. “Whatever he throws at us, you can beat him!”
“We’re not in Congroo!” Lout announced, his eyes blazing. “There is no Pacifist Enforcement and Control Enchantment here. The World of Science is a world without PEACE! I can use the ultimate forbidden warfare spell and send you all on the longest journey of your pathetic little lives! One that will end in your deaths!”
Pre shivered and appeared to lose courage. I leaned forward and whispered, “I’ve had pretty good luck with To Cast a Reflection.”
Pre’s spine straightened. Lout made complicated weaving movements with his hands and fluttered his fingers at us. He shouted three syllables.
“Lava tree!”
But at the same instant, Pre shouted back, “Doomerang!”
Oöm Lout doubled over and clutched his stomach. He looked up at us in surprise. Then the look turned to one of pure hatred.
“No! You can’t do this to me! This isn’t a schoolyard. It’s a battlefield! Oh, what a world! What a world!” He bared his teeth. His eyes crossed. He reached one trembling hand toward us. “At least throw me a magazine!”
He disappeared into his clothing. One moment his head was surrounded by his collar and his hands were outside their shirt cuffs, and the next moment his head and hands were being sucked into his wizard’s outfit. Another instant, and his empty clothing fell in a heap in front of us.
“What just happened?” asked Modesty, sounding as stunned as I felt.
“What would have happened to me if I hadn’t been quick enough,” said Pre. He turned to us. All the green had drained from his face. “Oöm Lout may have thought it would happen to you, too. I think he forgot, in all the excitement, that the two of you are different.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
Phloggie was circling lower and lower, her glow getting dimmer and dimmer.
“The ultimate forbidden warfare spell,” said Pre. “He tried to use it on us. I used To Cast a Reflection and sent it right back at him.”
“So what was the spell you reflected?” I asked.
“Oh. Well. It’s not even nice to talk about it.”
“Talk about it,” Modesty suggested.
“It… removes the filters from an enemy’s IT.”
“From their Information Technology?” Modesty said.
Pre looked uncomfortable.
“No. Their Intestinal Teleportation. The spell removes the filters, expands the scope, and increases the urgency. It’s a terrible weapon.”
“What happened to Oöm Lout?” I demanded.
“He… pooped himself to Jupiter.”
Well.
There wasn’t too much anybody could say to t
hat. We just stood in shocked silence.
“Heck of a way to meet your end,” Modesty decided. “I mean. You know. So to speak.”
Phloggie pitched to one side, and we were suddenly reminded we were on the back of an airborne dragon made of cornstalks. We flailed our arms to keep our balance and twisted our feet more deeply into the corn. Pre stepped carefully over Oöm Lout’s empty cloak and studied the dragon’s neck, trying to figure out the safest places to put his feet.
Suddenly, he froze. “Anybody smell smoke?” he asked.
I sniffed, smelled it, then saw it: gray tendrils rising from Phlogiston’s back. I looked more deeply into the body of the dragon and saw a red glow. It brightened even as I watched. I knew at once what had happened. I had seen it before.
“There were sparks when she tried to eat the string of lights,” I cried. “The cornstalks are starting to burn. When that fire takes off, this dragon’s gonna fry, just like the harvester!”
We were flying at twice the height of the fire tower. Jumping wasn’t an option.
Modesty stepped back from the neck. “Maybe the fire will knock Phloggie back into her own body,” she said excitedly.
“No!” Pre shook his head. “Fire doesn’t jolt—it eats away. Flames won’t save Phloggie. I have to stop this. I’ve almost finished the incantation To Put Out a Fire—” He started chanting some typically nonsensical syllables from a Congroo incantation. “Chim chiminny go Bimini banana phana foe fiminny; skeetches, peaches—”
Phlogiston spiraled downward. She began a tight circle around the top of the fire tower, her left wing grazing the roof of the cab. I thought she might be doing it intentionally, as a way for us to save ourselves if we had the courage. With a whoosh, the smoldering fire inside her became a full-fledged blaze that sent tongues of flame up through her body to lick at our feet.
“We’re not going to be able to stay airborne—” I shouted; then I heard the word forlorn in my mind as I said airborne, and I remembered Delleps talking about a limerick that rhymed airborne with forlorn. And one other word…
