Bumblestook: Book 1, The Accidental Wizard (10 page)

“My name’s Yap. I’m in d’sguise!” the creature said, wagging his thrice-curled tail.

“It’s a very good disguise, even in the light. Let me guess, you’re a G-r-r-rog, right?” Tom asked, rolling the “r”s to pronounce the word correctly.

“How could you tell?” The creature pouted.

“Pshaw, I’m an expert at this discovery bit. Learned all about it, when I was just a kit. C’mon, let’s have a look at you.”

The creature looked over his shoulder, then joined Tom behind the bush. “Well, awright—but ya gotta promise not ta tell.” He watched solemnly, as Tom pantomimed locking his lips and throwing away the key, in the universally accepted Pledge of Silence.

“Here goes!” Yap said. He proceeded to chase his tail, running around in a tight little circle, till he became a furry blur. When he stopped, a very young G-r-r-rog stood in his place.

There were many similarities to the breed of dog known as the American Eskimo. Most of Yap’s body was covered with long, sparkling-white fur, except for his face, which was much like that of a very pale Human child. The soles of his feet and palms of his hands were covered by pads of thick, pink skin. Furry triangular ears perched high atop his head. His small, fox-like face, with its sharp little chin and upturned nose, was dominated by large, dark sparkling eyes. He wore a grey, wool tunic, with a gaily-colored braided belt and blue wool knickers, tucked into leather mountain-climbing boots. Standing upright on two legs, the top of his head barely reached Tom’s shoulder. And he still possessed that incredible, thrice-coiled tail.

Yap looked up at Tom, dark eyes troubled, lower lip trembling. “I fergot—I wazzun ever,
ever
usposed ta change. I’m kinda new at this.”

“Don’t worry about it, kid, no need to cry. Obviously, you’re a bit
young
to be a spy.”

“I’m not a pup!” Yap protested indignantly, eyes flashing and little hands clenched. “I’m two years old! That’s
four
in Human years!”

“Hey, hey! Don’t get your tail in a twist. I’m just saying, you’re at an age when a Mother is sorely missed. Betcha miss
yours
, huh?”

Yap’s eyes filled with tears and his face screwed up with the effort to stop them from spilling over. “Maybe a little,” he said, voice a-quiver.

“And what about your Father? Best advice
I
ever had, I got from my dad. By the by, is
your
old man somewhere, nearby?” Tom asked this with no small degree of nervousness, as adult G-r-r-rogs (in contrast to the fluffy, cute cuddliness of their young) were as large as bears and could be every bit as surly.

Yap bit his lower lip. “No, my dad’s at home with my mom. I’m here all by myself.”

Tom felt a familiar shiver race down his spine to the tip of his tail. His tail jerked uncontrollably, which (as every Bungaree knew) signaled
The Moment of Truth
; the point when the Target was ready to Spill the Beans! Eyes glittering, he pressed on relentlessly.

“It’s just that your growth is at such an early stage. I’m surprised they sent you off by yourself, at such a tender age.”

“It wazzun
their
idea. My mom didn’t even want me to go. It was that Wizard, Barfollymous. He said I’d be perfeckly safe, but maybe my mom was right—maybe I
am
too little to have such a big ‘sponsibility.” The small creature’s shoulders slumped and his ears drooped dejectedly.

The Bungaree sighed. His natural instincts and training were to ruthlessly ferret out his chosen Target’s secrets, but the creature’s extreme youth and vulnerability tugged at his heart.

“Listen, kid, I’ll cut you a break. This innocence stuff is more than I can take. I’ve been in business a lot longer than you. Perhaps, I can give you a pointer or two.”

The young G-r-r-rog’s expression lightened. “Couldja really?” he asked hopefully. “Can you give me summa those, whatchacallum, pointers, right now?”

“Er-uh, sure, why not. Pull up a spot.”

The G-r-r-r-rog promptly sat down on his haunches and looked up expectantly, all thoughts of home having fled.

Tom paced back and forth, tail curled high above his head, hands clasped behind his back, forehead furrowed in thought. He reached into a pocket with the tip of his tail; pulling out a thick, stubby pencil, the end of which had been well chewed. Then, he turned to the wall. Using his tail as a third hand, with swift strokes he marked the stuccoed surface with a large numeral
1
and the word
LOYALTY
, in bold capital letters. Snapping off a branch from a nearby bush, he used it to point to the word he had written and turned to face his wide-eyed pupil.

“Repeat after me. Loyalty!”

“Loy-lol-ty!” Yap recited enthusiastically.

“Above all, you must remain loyal to your Mission Orders. Once you receive them, you must live them and breathe them and never, never,
ever
deceive them. Say, what
are
your orders, anyway?”

“Iyam The Eyes and The Ears!” Yap answered proudly.

“Well, that sounds swell! The eyes and ears for whom, pray tell?” Tom probed.

“For Barfollymous the Bold, cuz he can’t see or hear the Bumblestook!”

“H-m-m, that certainly is a mystery, although I doubt that there is much to see,” Tom mused. Next, he wrote a large numeral
2
and the word
DISCRETION
, with a flourish. He tapped it with his pointer.

“Discretion!”

“Dish-cresh-shun!” Yap repeated dutifully. “Whatzat?”

“It means you gotta be discreet. Beware of everyone you meet. Be wise and maintain your disguise. Be careful to whom you speak and what you say! Better yet, don’t talk to anyone—you’re safer that way.”

“Not even ta
you
?”

“What? Oh,
that’s
different. We’re on the same side, so there’s nothing to hide. With Bartholeumous and me, feel perfectly free.” Tom’s brow creased briefly. “Actually, Mr. Faire is okay, too. If you need to speak with him, please do. But no more than those three—Bartholeumous, Mr. Faire, and me.” He paused once more, chewing thoughtfully on the end of his pencil. “Well, we might as well add Mrs. Faire, too. No doubt, she already knows about
you
. So that’s it! Just us four, and no more. With us there’s no need to be tight-lipped. But with everyone else, keep it zipped!”

Turning back to the wall he wrote the numeral
3
and the word
VIGILANCE
.

“ Vigilance!” he instructed, pointing with the stick.

“Vigilala-
what
?” asked Yap, one little ear pointing up and the other down, as he scrutinized the unfamiliar word.

“Always be on guard and maintain your defenses. Scan for anything suspicious, using all of your senses.”

“Like what?”

“Concentrate your perusal, on anything unusual.”

“Like how Mr. Bumblestook sometimes wears two diff’rent shoes?”

“Admittedly that does seem wrong, but more like strange goings-on.”

“Oh! Ya mean like how
Mrs.
Bumblestook walks her plants?”

The Bungaree sighed and shook his head. “Just keep an eye out, that’s good enough. Report any and all curious stuff. By the way, how do you report? Secret code? Hidden messages? Things of that sort?”

“Nah, as long as I wear this, Barfollymous sees an’ hears everything I do.” Yap parted the thick fur about his neck, revealing three small crystals, set into a slender, gold leather collar.

Tom’s whiskers twitched involuntarily. “Ahem, you don’t say! Well, that’s enough for today. Time to make my rounds. Gotta go patrol the grounds. And don’t forget!” He pointed with the stick to the words written on the wall.

“Loyalaty, dishcreshun, vigilalance!” Yap recited dutifully.

Tom spun round, quickly transforming back into his catlike form, then leapt easily to the top of the wall. Yap followed his lead, chasing his tail in a tight circle, till he once again wore his puppy disguise.

“Ooh-ooh-ooh! Gotta pee, gotta pee!” the pup whined urgently, setting off in a mad dash around the yard; generously watering every bush and tree along the way.

From atop the wall, Tom silently reflected that the young G-r-r-rog’s disguise suited him remarkably well. He dropped down effortlessly into his own yard, then headed for the kitchen door. He had a report of his own to make and didn’t have the advantage of a fancy collar.

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

Meanwhile, at school, it was Free Play Time. For one glorious hour, the children were allowed to play with all of the toys that stocked the shelves and filled the toy boxes. Also open to unrestricted fun were the Playcenters; the Kid Friendly Kitchen, Funtime Gas Station, Blooming Artist Table and Little Carpenter’s Bench.

Miss Magooly sat at her desk, watching the children stampede toward their favorite play-things. Miss Magooly liked Free Play Time. She could easily keep an eye (and ear) on the group while catching up on her paperwork. The trick was to let the sounds of the playing children blend together as background noise; somewhat like the relaxation tapes (“Soothing Sounds of the Rainforest” and “Whale Songs of the South Seas”) that she listened to at the end of particularly hectic days.

She watched for a moment to verify that Farley and Fiona were playing together, thereby keeping each other out of trouble. She spotted them at the Art Center, a table laden with every color of crayon imaginable (including Glow-in-the-darks, Sparkles and seven different shades of flesh-tone) as well as a variety of coloring pages. Giving a small sigh of relief, she settled comfortably into the routine of updating her students’ files.

Shortly thereafter, Miss Magooly added a final note to the last file with a satisfied smile. Suddenly, her head snapped up and one of her eyes began to twitch, as a silent alarm went off in her head! Her teachers’ sixth sense had alerted her to a subtle change in the happy atmosphere of the kindergarten classroom. Her eyes, flicking nervously around the room, sought the source of the disturbance; settling on the Art Center.
Where were Farley and
Fiona?

There!
She spotted Farley in a far corner of the room, next to a crude castle built of Jumbo Softblocks. Two other boys stood near him. Something in their attitude sent waves of warning signals streaming across the room; bombarding Miss Magooly’s psyche.

One of the students was a boy who had recently moved into the neighborhood. He’d only been in the classroom a week, but already exhibited signs of becoming the class bully. The second boy (usually quite harmless on his own) had been drawn to the new boy’s personality; following him about like a fawning dog, ready to leap forward at the snap of his fingers.

Miss Magooly had been trained to handle situations like this. Bullies usually only picked on those they perceived to be weaker. To defuse the situation, all she had to do was make them aware that she was watching.

Let’s just nip this right in the bud,
she thought as she began to push back her chair.
To her surprise, her arms and legs refused to respond! Her heart thumped madly in her chest like a frightened rabbit. She tried to call out a warning, but her throat constricted and all she could manage was a squeak!
I must be having a panic
attack,
the stricken teacher thought. Her eyes desperately searched the room.
Where was Fiona?

There!
Fiona stood by the bookshelves, not far from the boys. Miss Magooly
was sure that if Fiona were to join Farley, the bullies would leave him alone; “even-steven” not being their kind of odds. But Fiona was behaving strangely; just standing back, watching, not making a move to go to her friend’s assistance.
What was going on?
Miss Magooly’s eyes swung back to the boys. Whatever was about to happen, she was stuck in the role of helpless observer.

Farley looked curiously into the new boy’s eyes. He didn’t understand why the boy was mad at him. Nobody
ever
got mad at him. Not his mom, when he accidentally knocked her favorite bottle of perfume into the toilet; leaving the bathroom smelling like a garden with every flush. Not his dad, when he accidentally set his jacket on fire, while blowing out birthday candles; setting off a pocketful of Snapdragon Firecrackers! Even Miss Magooly never got mad at him; not for breaking the window, or knocking over the bookshelves, or spilling paint on the new rug. So, why was this kid so mad at him now?

All he had done was color a picture of a dragon to hang on the castle wall. The kids building the castle liked the picture. But the new boy, Nick Krumpke, had pushed them aside and planted himself directly in Farley’s path, a baleful look in his beady little eyes and a sneer twisting his lips.

“Whatcha got there,
Barley
? Izzat a pitcher of your
mom
?”

“Pitcher of his mom, that’s what it is!” the other boy snickered.

Farley grinned disarmingly. “Nah! Itsa
dragon
! My mom doesn’t have horns!”

To his surprise, the other kids (whom, for some reason, had retreated behind the castle wall) giggled hysterically. Maybe the boy just wanted to trade jokes! Why then, did his eyes narrow to slits and why was his face turning so red that his freckles disappeared? Farley watched curiously as the color spread to the boy’s ears and into the roots of his hair.