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"I'd rather not be eaten at all!”
“Ew!" Bastille repeated.
"Hide the sword,” Kaz said, finally getting to his feet. He was short enough to stand upright. "I'll get us out of here.”
"Great," I said, the light winking out. "Maybe you could get us a bath too, and - gruble-garb-burgle!"
I was suddenly underwater.
I thrashed about in the dark, terrified, suffocating. The water was horribly cold, and my skin grew numb in a few heartbeats. I opened my mouth to cry out -
Which, mind you, was a pretty stoopidalicious thing to do.
And then I washed out into open air, water rushing around me as I fell through an open doorway. Kaz stood to the side, gasping, holding the door open. He'd managed to get us to Keep Smedry; a familiar black stone hallway led in either direction.
I sat up, holding my head, my clothing wet. We appeared to have fallen out of the cleaning closet, and the floor of the hallway was now soaked with salty seawater. A few small, white-eyed fish flopped around on the stones. Bastille lay in front of me, hair a soggy silver mass. She groaned and sat up, flipping her hair back.
"Where were we?" I asked.
"Bottom of the ocean," Kaz said, taking off his soaked leather jacket and eyeing it appraisingly.
"The pressure should have killed us!"
"Nah," Kaz said, wringing out his jacket, "we surprised her. We were gone before she realized we were there."
"Her?" I asked.
"The ocean,” Kaz said. "She never expects Smedry Talents."
"Who does?" Bastille said, her voice flat.
"Well, you did say you wanted a bath," Kaz said. “Come on. We should get moving before those knights think to send someone to Keep Smedry."
I sighed, climbing to my feet, and the three of us jogged down the hallway - our clothing making squishing noises - and entered a stairwell. We climbed to the top of one of the keep's towers and ran out onto the landing pad. There we found an enormous glass butterfly lethargically flapping its wings. It reflected the sunlight, throwing out colorful sparkles of light in all directions.
I froze. "Wait. This is our escape vehicle?"
"Sure," Kaz said. "The Colorfly. Something wrong?"
"Well, it's not particularly . . . manly.”
"So?" Bastille said, hands on hips.
"Er . . . I mean . . . well, I was hoping to be able to escape in something a little more impressive."
"So if it's not manly, it's not impressive?" Bastille said, folding her arms.
“I . . . er . . .”
"Now would be a good time to shut up, Al," Kaz said, chuckling. "You see, if your mouth is closed, that will prevent you from saying anything else. And that will prevent you from getting a foot in your mouth - either yours placed there or hers kicking you."
It seemed like good advice. I shut my mouth and trotted after Kaz, making my way to the gangplank up to the glass butterfly.
To this day, however, I'm bothered by that departure. I was going on what was, in many ways, my first real mission. Before, I'd stumbled into things accidentally. But now I'd actively decided to go out and help.
It seemed that I should be able to make my triumphant departure inside something cooler than a butterfly. In heroic journey terms, that's like being sent to college driving a pale yellow '76 Pacer. (Ask your parents.)
But, as I believe I've proven to you in the past, life is not fair. If life were fair, ice cream would be calorie free, kittens would come with warning labels stamped on their foreheads, and James Joyce's "The Dead" would totally be about zombies. (And don't get me started on Faulkner's As I Lay Dying.)
"Hey, cousin!" a voice exclaimed. A head popped out of the bottom of the butterfly. It had short, black hair with dark tan skin. A hand followed, waving at me. Both belonged to a young Mokian girl. If she were from the Hushlands, she'd have been described as Hawaiian or Samoan. She was wearing a colorful red-and-blue sarong and had a flower pinned in her hair.
"Who are you?" I asked, walking under the glass vehicle.
"I'm your cousin Aydee! Kaz says you need me to fly you to Mokia." There was an exuberance about her that reminded me of her sister, Australia. Only Australia was much older. This girl couldn't be more than eight years old.
"You’re our pilot? But you're just a kid!"
"I know! Ain't it great?" She smirked, then pulled back into the butterfly, a glass plate sliding into place where she’d been hanging.
"Best not to challenge her, Al,” Kaz said, walking up and laying a hand on my arm.
"But we're going into a war zone!" I said, looking at Kaz.
"We shouldn't bring a kid into that."
"Oh, so perhaps I should leave you behind?" Kaz said.
"The Hushlanders would call you a kid too."
"That's different," I said lamely.
"Her homeland is being attacked," Bastille said, climbing up the gangplank. "She has a right to help. Nobody sends children into battle, but they can help in other ways. Like flying us to Mokia. Come on! Have you forgotten that we're being chased?"
"It seems like I'm always being chased," I said, climbing up the gangplank. "Come on. Let's get going."
Kaz followed me up: and the gangplank swung closed. The butterfly lurched into the air and swooped
. . . well, fluttered . . .
away from the city in a dramatic
. . . well, leisurely . . .
flight toward Mokia, with a dangerous
. . . well, mostly just a cute . . .
determination to see the kingdom protected and defended!
Either that or we'd just spend our time drinking nectar from flowers. You know, whatever ended up working.
CHAPTER 42
Change.
It's important to change. I, for instance, change my underwear every day. Hopefully you do too. If you don't, please stay downwind.
Change is frightening. Few of us ever want things to change. (Well, things other than underwear.) But change is also fascinating - in fact, it's necessary. Just ask Heraclitus.
Heraclitus was a funny little Greek man best known for letting his brother do all of the hard work, for calling people odd names, and for writing lyrics for Disney songs about two thousand years too early for them to be sung. He was quite an expert on change, even going so far as to change from alive to dead after smearing cow dung on his face. (Er, yes, that last part is true, I'm afraid.)
Heraclitus is the first person we know of to ever gripe about how often things change. In fact, he went so far as to guess that you can never touch the same object twice - because everything and everybody changes so quickly, any object you touch will change into something else before you touch it again.
I suppose that this is true. We're all made of cells, and those are bouncing around, breaking off, dying, changing. If nothing could change, then we wouldn't be able to think, grow, or even breathe. What would be the point? We'd all be about as dynamic as a pile of rocks. (Though, as I think about it, even that pile of rocks is changing moment by moment, as the winds blow and break off atoms.)
So . . . I guess what Heraclitus was saying is that your underpants are always changing, and technically you now have on a different pair than you did when you began reading this chapter. So I guess you don't have to change them every day.
Sweet! Thanks, philosophy!
I whistled in amazement, hanging upside down from the tree. "Wow! That was quite the trip! Aydee, you're a fantastic pilot."
"Thanks!" Aydee said, hanging nearby.
"I mean, I thought thirty-seven chapters' worth of flying would be boring,” I said. "But that was probably the most exciting thing I've been a part of since Grandpa showed up on my doorstep six months ago!”
“I particularly enjoyed the fight with the giant half squid, half wombat," Bastille said.
"You really showed him something!” I said.
"Thanks! I didn't realize he'd be so interested in my stamp collection."
"Y
eah, I didn't realize you'd taken so many pictures of people's faces you'd stamped on!”
"Personally," Kaz said, untangling himself from the bushes below, "I preferred the part where we flew up into space."
"We should have done that in book two," Bastille said.
"Then that cover would have made sense."
"There were so many exciting things on this trip,” I said, still swinging in the vines. "It's tough to pick just one as my favorite."
Kaz dusted himself off looking up at me. “Reason number eighty-two why it's better to be a short person: when you plummet to your doom, you don’t fall as far as tall people."
"What?" I said. "Of course you do!”
