Bumblestook: Book 1, The Accidental Wizard (30 page)

“Okay, Mom,” mirror-image Farley said solemnly.

“Spit ‘n rinse, dear,” his mother said.

“Is there a spitting song?” Farley asked through a mouthful of foam.

“I’ll work on it,” his mother promised. Her cheerful reflection winked out of existence, as mirror-image Farley bent to spit.

“Sorry, Mom,” real-time Farley whispered, dashing the moisture from his eyes with the backs of his hands. “I forgot to bring my toothbrush.”

Dejectedly, he zipped up his jacket against a sudden chill and yet another image rose to en-gage him. This time it was Dad; placing the magician’s cape about his shoulders with a swirl and tying the ribbon under his chin with a flourish. His hair stuck up like cotton candy and his cheeks were flushed with excitement.

“Gotta new trick for the Mendelssohn Bar Mitzvah, Farley-m’-boy! Watch this!” He motioning dramatically with one hand, as a giant, yellow comb (a foot long if it was an inch) appeared in the other. “Betcha didn’t see
that
comin!” he exclaimed, looking expectantly at Farley.

“Nope,” Farley heard himself say.

“Now, watch
this
,” Dad said, running the comb through his disheveled hair.

Farley watched with wonder, as his father’s pepper and salt locks turned yellow!

Next, Dad gave the comb a vigorous shake. It turned fire engine red, as did his hair when he combed it. Once again, he shook the comb. This time, it turned a bright, spring green; changing the hair to match when he ran the comb through it.

“And
now
,” Dad said with a bow, “back to normal!” He flourished the comb (now sporting a more conservative black finish) and ran it dramatically through his hair. “Ta-da!” he announced triumphantly.

“It’s still green,” Farley heard himself respond.

“What? You’re joking, right? Ha-ha! That’s a good one! Ya got me, Sport! Now, c’mon, wadja think?” green-haired Dad asked.

“It’s really good, Dad. ‘cept your hair’s still green.”

“Wha—? Oh dear! Oh dear-oh-dear-oh-dear! Myrtle! How d’ya get this darn stuff off?”

The flashback ended, as his father dashed off, with a swirl of his magician’s cloak. Back in present-time, Farley reached into the pocket of his jeans; pulling out his little black comb. He raised his hand slowly, running the comb through unyielding locks; doing little more than rearranging the uncooperative tufts and clumps.

“I’ll find you, Dad. I promise,” he whispered fiercely, dreamy eyes hardening with determination. Abruptly, he whirled about and strode purposefully toward the straw hut.

Tom and Yap leapt alertly to their feet, while Fiona (sensing Farley’s mood) woke up and quickly exited the hut. A slight shake of her head caused every strand of hair to fall into place. With a light touch of her hands, the wrinkles magically fell from her clothes.

“Daylight’s a-wastin’!” Farley told them (quoting his mother on school mornings) and “Time to get a move on!” (His father’s favorite a.m. exhortation).

The night before, they had agreed to get an early start (not knowing what time the ranger would arrive in the morning). Hastily, they gathered their gear. As Farley started for the front door, Fiona laid a hand upon his arm.

“Wait! We should check Ranger Gary’s fridge for extra food. We don’t know how long it’ll take to find your parents and we’ve got to keep our strength up,” she counseled wisely.

“All right,” Farley said uneasily, his mother’s memory prodding him. “But we can’t just take it—that’d be stealing.” He dug into his pockets for coins as he followed his friend into the tiny office.

Inside the little refrigerator, they found a half loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter mixed with jelly, a chunk of orange cheese, and a single cinnamon roll. Fiona confiscated the food, tucking it away in their backpacks. Farley poured a handful of lint-covered coins onto the empty shelf.

Quickly, they joined the others and were soon making their way down the wooden ramp. As they neared the end, they heard the rumbling of an approaching vehicle and caught flashes of chrome, flickering through the trees. Hurriedly, they dashed into the bushes bordering the parking lot; crouching down low, as the ranger’s truck hove into view, engine coughing and tires spitting gravel.

Ranger Gary pulled into his parking spot and leapt from the vehicle; eyes narrowing, as he scanned the trees and bushes like a hawk.

“Hullo,” he called out. “Is anybody there?”

He turned about slowly, surveying the parking lot and surrounding shrubbery. Seeing no one, he reached into the truck; pulling out a hand-held microphone, attached to a CB radio, mounted on the dashboard. It crackled to life as he pressed the button.

“Breaker, breaker, one nine. This is Papa Bear, looking for Baby Bear. Ya gotchur ears on, good buddy? C’mon back,” he drawled, with the ease of one long familiar with CB radio jargon.

“ This here’s Baby Bear. Whatcha got there, Papa—c’mon.”

“Be careful coming in this morning, Earl. Thought I saw something moving in the parking lot when I pulled in.”

“Ya think ol’ Snaggletooth’s back?”

“Could be. When you get here, first thing we’ll do is scout around for any sign of a big cat. Got some Boy Scouts camping down the road a bit. We don’t want any surprises.”

“Gotcha, Boss. Baby Bear out.”

Ranger Gary replaced the handset and shut the door. With a final look around, he headed up the wooden ramp, unlocked the door to the station and went in.

Farley and Fiona waited a moment, then crept away, keeping a low profile until they could no longer see the ranger station. Tom and Yap slunk along on all fours behind them; staying in their animal forms to allow for easier travel over the forest floor. Farley held the compass-stone in one hand; checking it often and changing direction to match that of its blinking lights. It continued to lead them deeper into the woods, steadily upward and further from civilization.

****************************************

Ranger Gary, having skipped breakfast that morning, headed straight for the little fridge in his office. Opening its door, he reached in for the cinnamon roll. At first, his searching fingers met naught but empty space. When they encountered the pile of coins, he bent down to peer in at the bare shelves.

“What the…”, he muttered, frowning.

As understanding dawned, he straightened abruptly and whirled about to search the small office with darting eyes. Finding no one, he rushed from the room to conduct a search of the entire station.

When he bent down to look through the small door of the Indian hut, something on the floor caught his eye. Awkwardly, he crawled halfway inside, his broad, upper body filling the small doorway. Reaching out, he grabbed the crumpled-up wrapper of a protein bar. Stuffing it in his shirt pocket, he proceeded to back out of the tight doorway. A brief struggle ensued, as the sides of the doorway cinched his plump waist and his attempts to retreat caused the entire structure to shake. Eventually he managed to come unstuck, emerging red-faced and puffing. With a scowl, he surged to his feet and quickly searched the remainder of the station.

The last place he looked was in the gift shop, set up in a corner near the front door. One glance around the small space (filled with shelves and bins to display items for purchase) quickly assured him that no one was there. His eyes fell upon the one spot of disorder in the efficiently organized space. Postcards lay in disarray on the polished wooden floorboards.

The ranger puffed out his cheeks and let out a sigh. He had forgotten about leaving last night’s mess for the morning. A sly look came over his face. He crossed quickly to the entrance and scanned the parking lot, where his Deputy Ranger was due to arrive any minute. The only vehicle in sight was his own. Hustling back to the gift shop, he stood eyeing the fallen cards with a strange smile of anticipation upon his lips.

The red-gold coloration of his hair and beard intensified as if a-fire, while twin orangey-red flames lit up his eyes. He rubbed his hands together (oddly, producing a shower of sparks) then thrust them into the air, fingers outstretched, while speaking in a voice that boomed and bounced off of the cedar plank walls.

“Restore! Restore! Be as before! Pick yourselves up off the floor! Quickly, quickly! About-face! Now everything, back in its place!”

The postcards leapt up, turning smartly about with their pictures facing outward. Lining up, they marched through the air to the wire display rack. One after the other, they dropped smoothly into their proper places, till all was truly as before.

Ranger Gary dusted his hands together and cracked his knuckles in satisfaction; surveying his handiwork with pride. Hearing the rumble of an approaching vehicle, he turned about slowly, the fire in his eyes dying out as a curtain of amiability fell over his face. With a congenial smile upon his lips, he ambled over to the door to greet his Deputy Ranger.

***********************************

At the top of the forest trail, an old mountain pine towered over its neighbors. Its long, lower, boughs fanned out; sweeping the ground, like the voluminous skirts of an antebellum, ballroom gown. The middle limbs lifted and curved, like the graceful, multiple arms of a Hindu god; while the short, upper branches topped it off with a comical, conical, evergreen cap. Beneath the wide, spruce skirt was a carpet of fragrant pine needles, littered with giant pinecones. It offered welcome refuge from the cold, sharp, mountain wind, to an odd little group of travelers.

Tom and Yap (in their two-legged forms) sat in a circle with Farley and Fiona. As the vigorous hike had left them all quite ravenous, they immediately set about preparing the food. Fiona laid out slices of bread, while Farley pulled out his father’s pocket knife to spread the PB & J.

Suddenly, Fiona reached out to stay his hand. Farley looked uneasily at his friend. Her eyes had glazed over and were focused on some point over his head. She seemed oddly unfamiliar and strange. Then she spoke, in a low, fiercely insistent voice that was not quite her own.

“Never draw your weapon for any purpose, other than that for which it was forged. Nor in anger, nor revenge, lest the blade be defiled, its spirit scorched, and so lose the will to defeat and defend.”

“What are you talking about? It’s just a pocket knife,” Farley said uneasily, shaking off her hand.

Fiona’s body gave a slight jerk, as her eyes re-focused on his. “What?”

“What you just said. You know, about weapons and revenge and blades being filed—”

Fiona stared at him, uncomprehending. A slight frown briefly creased her forehead. “
I
didn’t say anything. It was the lady—” She looked around, perplexed.

“Huh? There’s no lady here,” Farley said, worriedly searching his friend’s face.

“But, I heard her quite clearly,” Fiona insisted. “I laid out the bread and I was waiting for you to spread the peanut butter. Then I heard her voice, calling my name. You didn’t hear her?” As Farley shook his head, she turned to Yap and Tom, who shook
their
heads so vigorously they nearly toppled over. “Tell me
exactly
what happened,” she demanded of Farley.

“First you grabbed my arm and stopped me from putting my knife in the peanut butter and
then
you told me not to draw my weapon,” he said.

“Why would I do such a thing?” Fiona asked sincerely.

“I dunno,” Farley replied. “You looked weird and your voice sounded funny—not like you at all.” He hesitated, then added, uncomfortably, “It was like you didn’t even know me.”

“That’s strange,” Fiona mused.

“You can say that again,” said Farley. “But, hey, there’s been
a-lotta
strange stuff going on lately! Actually, I think I’m getting kinda used to it. I mean, it’s not any weirder than that shadow thing, or talking pets—”

The children shared a long look, then turned to the creatures sitting beside them. Tom and Yap had been following their conversation closely, looking back and forth from one to the other, but had, themselves, remained strangely silent.

“Hey, do you guys know something
we
don’t know?” Farley asked.

A high-pitched whine escaped from Yap’s lips and a look of distress overtook his face, as he wriggled and squirmed under their scrutiny.