Storms and Scarabs

by H. R. Hobbs

  “What for?”

  “That’s who we’re getting the pigs from,” his mom told him.

  “Do I have to?”

  His father frowned. “You don’t have to, but I thought you’d want to.”

  “Do we have to go right now? I’m just in the middle of polishing the spyglass. I found some symbols. I think they might—”

  “I thought we decided yesterday that we were going to put the spyglass back in the attic?” Mitch didn’t miss the frustration in his dad’s voice.

  His shoulders fell. “I know that’s what we said. But I got thinking about it, and . . . maybe the symbols have something to do with making it work.”

  “It’s just a spyglass, Mitch.” His mom covered his hand with hers. “I think you’re getting yourself all worked up about this.” She turned to his dad. “You never should have taken him to talk to Hank, Ray. Now he thinks there’s some magical mystery to be solved.”

  “It didn’t hurt anything, Sandy. If he wants to figure out how to make it work, let him.” His dad stopped before adding, “But it can’t interfere with your work around the farm.”

  Of course. It always came back to the farm. Mitch was so tired of hearing about the farm. Haul this, move that, feed the pigs, seed the fields. Again, he wished they’d never moved here. He stopped for a moment. If they hadn’t moved here, Mitch never would have discovered the spyglass or the mystery behind it and his great-grandpa.

  I never would have met Brock, he thought.

  “Come on.” His dad drank the last of his coffee. “Get your clothes on. We’re going over to Jeff’s to pick up your pigs. Once you see them, you may change your mind.”

  Resigned to doing what his dad said, Mitch dragged his feet up to his room.

  Two hours later, Mitch and his dad stood looking at the four pigs in their new pen. Mitch had to admit they were kind of funny. They rooted around in the fresh straw, flipping it up in the air so that it landed on their heads.

  “You going to give them names?” His dad smiled as he watched their antics. His elbows rested on the side of the pen, occasionally scratching their heads when they came close.

  Mitch hadn’t given it a thought. When they’d first arrived at Jeff’s and saw the pen full of pigs, he’d been terrified. There was no way he was going to get into the pen and choose some, like Jeff suggested. Instead, he’d pointed to the ones he thought they should buy and his dad and Jeff caught them and put them in the trailer to take home.

  Mitch had chosen four pigs that were all completely different from each other. One was pink, one was black, one was orange, and the last one was a mixture of all three colours. He hadn’t thought about giving them names. He hadn’t even touched one yet. It was now his job to feed them every day so his family could butcher them in the fall. His dad shared that little nugget while they were driving back from Jeff’s. He wasn’t sure he wanted to give them names if they were just going to end up in their freezer in a few months.

  “I’ll think about it,” Mitch told his dad. “What do they eat, anyway?”

  His dad slapped the side of one of the pigs as it passed by, then pointed to the pen at the front of the barn. “There are pellets in there. Give them a couple of pails morning and night. Your mom may send you down with a slop pail every once in a while, too.”

  Mitch frowned.

  “What’s a slop pail? Sounds gross.”

  His dad chuckled. “Kitchen scraps and that kind of thing. Pigs eat it like you eat chocolate.”

  Mitch shuddered as he imagined what his mom would put in it. Probably not chocolate.

  “And make sure they have lots of water. There are pails over by the hydrant. You got this, bud.” His dad slapped him on the back, like he’d slapped the pig, and straightened. “This will give you something to think about besides the spyglass and journal.”

  Mitch didn’t think so. He couldn’t see how four smelly pigs were going to take his mind off the spyglass. He thought about it sitting in the box on his nightstand. His dad had also told him on the ride that he had to put it back in the attic today. Maybe he could put it back and then sneak it out later?

  His dad brought a pail of water over and dumped it in the trough. All four pigs stuck their snouts in the water and splashed around. Mitch groaned. He was going to have to fill it more than twice a day if they used it as a bathtub.

  With the pigs settled in their new home, he and his dad walked out of the barn. Mitch kicked stones and the odd chunk of manure.

  “Listen,” his dad began. “I know you’re not happy about putting the spyglass back in the attic. But I think it’s for the best.”

  Mitch didn’t understand why. The stupid thing didn’t even work. What could it possibly hurt to keep it in his room?

  Just as he was about to say all this to his dad, Mitch heard his name being called from the house. He looked up to see Brock running towards him, waving. Mitch and his dad met Brock in the middle of the yard.

  “Hey,” Brock said breathlessly.

  “Hey,” Mitch answered, confused. “What are you doing here?”

  “Mitch.”

  “Sorry.” Mitch hung his head at the disapproval in his father’s voice. He changed his tone. “How are you, Brock?”

  Brock had on his huge grin. “My mom was coming over to bring your mom some plants from her greenhouse and she asked me if I wanted to come.”

  Mitch looked up to see his mom and Lisa unloading flats of plants from the back of the Turners’ truck.

  “I’ll go see if they need a hand,” his dad said. “Why don’t you show Brock the pigs?”

  “Okay.” The lack of enthusiasm in Mitch’s voice came through loud and clear. He turned and started back to the barn.

  “You got pigs?”

  “Yeah. My dad thought I needed some chores to do, I guess.”

  “Chores are terrible. Mine is to collect eggs every morning. It’s the worst. The hens always peck at my hands and fly around. Or they won’t get off the eggs and you have to push them off. I’ll tell you what—an angry hen is not something you want to experience. You got off lucky. Pigs are ten times better than chickens.”

  Mitch’s eyes adjusted to the darkness of the barn. He led Brock over to the pen.

  “They stink really bad,” Mitch said, leaning against the wooden slats of the pen.

  “There aren’t many things that don’t stink on the farm.”

  Brock leaned over and scratched one of the pigs the way Mitch’s dad had done. Mitch couldn’t help but feel jealous of Brock. He’d been around farm animals his whole life. He wasn’t scared of pigs or cows. (Although it sounded like he didn’t like chickens too much.)

  “And I have to get up early every day and feed them before school. Which sucks.”

  “You’ll get used to it.” Brock lifted his leg and got into the pen.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I want to hold one.” Brock hefted one of the pigs and scratched it as the pig squealed in his arms.

  “You’re crazy!” Mitch shook his head. “My dad hopes the pigs will take my mind off the spyglass and journal.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. We went and talked to Hank Elliot yesterday. He said my great-grandpa was convinced the spyglass brought bad luck or something.”

  “Really?” Brock’s eyes were round. “That is so cool! Did he say why he thought that?”

  “First of all, my great-grandpa told him to never mention the spyglass to anyone. Second, he thought it might have something to do with my great-grandpa’s disappearances over the years.”

  “So he wasn’t loony?”

  Mitch bristled at the description. “No.”

  “Huh. Was your dad right? Are the pigs taking your mind off the spyglass and journal?”

  “Hardly. I polished up the spyglass and discovered a bunch of symbols etched in the metal. I was wondering if you might recognize some of them—you know, from the
museum exhibit you went to. I think it might have something to do with how the spyglass works, but my dad is making me put it up in the attic.”

  Brock put the pig down and the boys left the barn.

  “Can I see it again before you have to put it away?”

  Mitch shrugged. He didn’t see why not. But he needed a way to sneak it past his parents.

  “You want to play catch?” he asked Brock.

  Brock frowned in confusion. “I thought we were going to look at the spyglass?”

  “We are. But I need an excuse to go into the house and get it. I’ll say we’re going to play catch, get some ball gloves, and sneak the spyglass out at the same time. But if you don’t want to play catch, that won’t work.”

  “Ahh, I get you. Playing catch is perfect. Eric whips balls at my head all the time and calls it ‘playing catch’—this’ll be way better.”

  Wow! Maybe having a big sister isn’t so bad after all, Mitch thought.

  “I’ll go get it. Then we can go to the treehouse.”

  Brock sat on the back step as Mitch went into the house. His parents and Lisa were sitting around the table having coffee.

  “What’s up, Mitch?” his mom asked as he started up the stairs to his room.

  “Brock and I are going to play catch. I’m just getting my glove.” Mitch tried to sound as casual as possible.

  “It looks like there’s a storm on its way. Don’t stay out there until you’re soaked.”

  “We won’t!” he yelled from the top of the stairs.

  Mitch found his glove and stuffed the box with the spyglass into it before folding it under his arm and going back downstairs. His parents didn’t say anything as he grabbed a ball out of the bucket by the door.

  Made it!

  He went out the door, nudged Brock with his foot, and said, “Let’s go.”

  The boys stayed out of the line of site from the kitchen windows, just in case one of their parents looked up and saw them making their way to the treehouse and not playing catch.

  They were both out of breath by the time they climbed the ladder and sat on the floor.

  The box sat on the floor between them. Neither of them moved to open it. Hank’s words came back to Mitch, repeating Great-Grandpa George: I wish I’d never bought it. It’s nearly destroyed my life. And what about his great-grandpa’s warning? Were they about to turn the world upside down?

  Brock looked at him. “What are you waiting for?”

  “I’m just thinking. Maybe we shouldn’t do this.”

  “Are you kidding? What’s the worst that could happen? I just want to see the hieroglyphs.”

  Mitch put his hand on the latch. “Are you ready?”

  “Just do it all ready! The suspense is killing me.”

  Mitch flipped the latch and took out the spyglass. He handed it to Brock, who turned it over in his hands.

  “This one looks like the eye of Ra.” He pointed to the first symbol Mitch had uncovered with his mom’s cleaner. Then he pointed at the parallel lines. “And this could be water. Or clouds. I don’t recognize the rest.” He studied each one before turning the spyglass to look at the next. “I wonder what they mean?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Brock extended the spyglass to its full length and continued to study it. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

  “The symbols on the next sections are exactly the same as the ones on the first . . . except for these arrows. They seem to be pointing in different directions.”

  “They’re probably just for decoration.” Mitch pulled at the frayed hem of his jeans, nervous. “It’s probably just an old kid’s toy.” He knew that wasn’t really true. Why would his great-grandpa keep it hidden and warn others about it?

  While Mitch moped about the spyglass, Brock turned the second section. They both heard a click! as the spyglass sections seemingly locked into place.

  Mitch looked at Brock in surprise. “What did you do?”

  Fear crossed Brock’s face at Mitch’s question. “I just turned this section to the right and it locked into place.”

  There was another rumble of thunder. This time it sounded closer.

  “Let me see,” Mitch demanded, and Brock immediately handed the spyglass over.

  Mitch tried to turn the bottom, but it wouldn’t budge. He shook it and tried again. Nothing.

  “It just seized up,” Brock said hopefully. “A little grease would get it moving again.”

  Mitch didn’t answer. He looked at the two sections closer. “See how the arrows line up on the bottom and middle?” He showed Brock what he was talking about. Each section had an arrow pointing toward the eye piece.

  “Do you think if we line up the last section that it might work?” Excitement was evident in Brock’s question.

  “There’s only one way to find out.” Mitch took the eyepiece and turned it to the left. Nothing happened.

  “Turn it the other way.” Brock motioned for him to turn it to the right.

  Mitch gripped the eyepiece and turned it to the right until the arrows from the bottom two sections lined up with the eyepiece. There was a soft but distinct click!

  Brock jumped to his feet. “That’s it! Now see if it works.”

  Suddenly a huge clap of thunder shook the treehouse.

  “Whoa! That was close. Maybe we should get out of here.” Brock looked out the window of the treehouse. “It’s just sprinkling. If we make a run for it, we might not get wet.”

  “Just a second . . .”

  Mitch brought the eyepiece up to his eye.

  “It still doesn’t work. All I can see is—”

  Mitch didn’t finish his sentence as another clap of thunder rocked the treehouse and clouds of black mist enveloped them both. Suddenly he felt like he was falling.

  “What’s happening?” Brock’s voice came from his right.

  “I don’t knoowww . . .” Mitch answered as the boys tumbled through space.

  Chapter 10

  It seemed like they’d been falling for hours. Make it stop! Mitch felt as though he was going to puke if this went on much longer, and that would not be good. He clutched the spyglass in one hand as he and Brock somersaulted through the black mist.

  Without warning, they landed with a thump on the ground.

  The wind knocked out of him, Mitch struggled to open his eyes and was immediately confronted with a large snout, sniffing him. They were in the pig pen. He squeezed his eyes shut. It definitely smelled like the pig pen. Voices faded in and out. Was his dad in the barn? Who was he talking to?

  Brock groaned beside him. “What happened?”

  Mitch was finally able to take a breath. “We’re in the barn. I think we’re in the pig pen.”

  He heard Brock take a deep breath. “Eww! I think you’re right.”

  The sniffing sound got closer. Mitch struggled to sit up. “Get out of here.” He pushed at the pig. It moved away, and it was then that he noticed the pig was orange with black spots. None of his pigs were orange with black spots.

  “Uh, Brock?” He looked over to where Brock was laying in the straw with his eyes closed.

  Brock moaned. “What?”

  Mitch swallowed. “I don’t think we’re in our barn.”

  At Mitch’s words, Brock’s eyes sprang open. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean”—he looked around the pen—“these aren’t my pigs.”

  Brock sat up. “You got them like two hours ago. Whose pigs could they be?”

  Mitch took a closer look at their surroundings. He felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him again. This wasn’t the barn at his farm. The wooden slats that formed the pen at home were now poles tied together with some kind of twine. The sunlight was the second clue. It was almost dark just a few moments ago. But now the sun was high in the sky, streaming through cracks in the roof of the pen, which was also made of poles. And man, was it hot. Sweat was already beading on
his forehead. His clothes were sticking to his body.

  Mitch was just about to tell Brock the bad news when another pig came over and rooted in the fresh straw beside him. Well, that was one good thing. It looked like the pen had been cleaned recently. At least they hadn’t landed in a pile of manure. And maybe it meant nobody was going to come in here soon and discover intruders. That gave them time to figure out where they were.

  Mitch pushed the pig away—or at least tried to. It merely grunted and kept rooting, trying to get at something that was underneath him.

  “The good news is, they don’t look hungry. The bad news is . . . I have no idea where we are.”

  Brock was finally starting to get what was happening. “Mitch,” he said. “There’s way more than four pigs in here.”

  Sounds of people talking drifted into the pen. As they both listened, they turned to each other with eyes as big as saucers.

  Neither of them recognized the language that was being spoken.

  “Where did you send us?” Brock asked, gesturing to the spyglass.

  “How should I know?” Mitch replied. He resented the accusation in Brock’s voice. He’d just wanted to get the spyglass to work. He didn’t know that it would send them somewhere. That wasn’t what spyglasses were supposed to do!

  Brock stood and dusted the straw off his jeans. “Well, we better find out where we are so we can get back home.”

  Mitch looked at the spyglass in his hand. Minutes ago, he’d just wanted to make it work. Now he was afraid that if it moved even a hair, it would send them somewhere else. He carefully slipped it into the back pocket of his jeans.

  In silent agreement, they moved to the end of the pen and peered between the poles.

  The sight that greeted them nearly sent them both back into the straw.

  The pen appeared to be in the middle of a market. Around them were men and women dressed in loose-fitting clothing and sandals. The dusty lane that ran beside and in front of the pen was full of people carrying baskets of fruit and grain on their heads. Children, their hair cut in a bowl shape (the boys) or flying out behind them (the girls) and wearing what looked like long T-shirts, ran among the stalls delivering pieces of paper or other items. Mitch blinked. Was that guy leading a cow down the street in his underwear? He didn’t say anything to Brock because he was certain his eyes were playing tricks on him. And who was barbequing?