Ravenspell Book 3: Freaky Fly Day (3 page)

Chapter 4

THE TOAD WARRIOR

Armed with sharp claws, rows of teeth, and poisonous skin, the African cane toad is the most vicious member of the toad family and is almost impossible to get rid of.

Yet it has become a favorite of sugar cane farmers around the world, and farmers have introduced it in the Americas and Australia, for it is the only animal known to eat the voracious cane rat, which has been known to devastate entire fields of sugar cane.

The largest known cane toad was found in Australia. Weighing nearly twenty-four pounds, the locals nicknamed it “Toad-zilla”!

—FROM THE
RAVENSPELL COOL BESTIARY

It is a well-known fact that Oregon is one of the rainiest states in all of North America. In fact, it is said that people in Oregon never get a suntan—instead they just rust.

But what is not so well known is that the state has a small desert smack dab in the middle of its wettest rainforest, up near Dallas, Oregon. The desert is very small indeed—only about the width of an umbrella. Nevertheless, while the rest of Oregon floods each winter, this desert has gone over two hundred years without getting blessed by a single drop of rain.

It is called Dinky Desert, and Oregon’s Bureau of Oddities considers it to be one of the state’s greatest treasures—right up there with the Monroe Bigfoot Wildlife Refuge, where one can go to see thousands of wild bigfoots out in forests dining on fern sprouts, salmon berries, and often shaking down campers for Twinkies.

Dinky Desert has been measured and studied by scientists for years. There are no trees above it to give it shelter, no mountains or rocks nearby to keep it dry. Indeed, many a scientist has gone out during fierce thunderstorms and used lasers to verify that while the rest of the ground around the desert got drenched, not a single raindrop landed on Dinky Desert.

Back in the 1940s, Albert Einstein himself was hired to figure out the odds that every single raindrop falling for two hundred years would somehow miss that spot, and he found the odds so difficult to calculate that he developed a severe cramp in the left temporal lobe of his brain that bothered him until his dying day, giving him nervous twinges.

Ultrasound scans of the sands beneath the desert, taken in 1989, revealed a single curiosity—the bones of some very large toads.

The desert itself is surrounded by a chain-link fence, provided by Oregon’s Bureau of Oddities, who thoughtfully provided a sign declaring the desert a state monument. Unfortunately, the marsh grass, cattails, and wild blue mountain irises that surround the desert grow so tall that no one can see the sign.

So it was that that night, under the cool light of ten thousand stars, a shadow took shape above the Dinky Desert. It was a shadow shaped like a tall man who wore a black robe that swept to the ground. His deep hood covered his face, but his skeletal hands poked out of the ends of his long robes. He raised a finger that was nothing but bone, and a hissing voice whispered, “Arise, O wind! May the heavens shake and thunder. Awaken, O my foul servants!”

With that, a small storm arose. It was very tiny indeed, about four feet across, and weather trackers who saw it on radar imagined that it was only a lonely goose flying through the night.

Yet the clouds roared over the fields and woods, thundering and shaking, and then the storm parked above the Dinky Desert, some thirty feet off the ground, where blue lightning flashed and struck the earth, blackening huge patches of grass.

Rain poured down fiercely, a deluge!

As the sand turned to mud, something strange happened.

Three giant toads came to life!

It wasn’t that the toads were dead at all. They were
estivating.
Just as a bear will go to sleep and hibernate during the winter, certain animals can go to sleep during dry spells. Some toads, lizards, and fish burrow down into the sand or mud, let their bodies dry up, and shrink down to nothing but skin and bones.

But when the rain falls again, these animals can soak up water like a sponge, then dig their way up to feed.

Thus, our toads awoke, and that night they scrabbled and shoved their massive red bodies out of the sand and sat in the storm.

“We have awakened,” one toad said, his croak more hoarse than usual. “How long has it been this time? How long?”

His name was Maximus, for he was the largest toad on earth. But the others just called him Max for short. Max the Toad Warrior.

The other two toads merely grunted in wonder. They were too weak to think well yet.

“It has been long ages—” the shadow hissed, “too long! Goodness and joy have overtaken the earth, and the world grows fat and lazy.

“The time has come for me to be reborn, for the Ever Shade to take a new form. You, Maximus, must gather my armies in preparation for the End of Time.”

“How long, O my master?” Max begged, blinking his eyes to a close and lowering his fat red snout to the ground.

“No one must know the hour or place of my return,” Ever Shade whispered, “for I have enemies who would try to stop me. Rest assured that it will be soon!”

With that, Ever Shade looked up at the stars and reached out a long, bony hand. He drew back his hood to reveal the horror of his face—a grinning skull that glowed faintly, with only a thin layer of greenish flesh covering it. He had holes for eyes.

Reaching for the stars, he made a clawing motion, as if to gather them. “Not only the earth,” he said. “This time I shall have the stars, too!”

With that, he began to fade until only darkness remained.

A terrible hunger assailed Max as he stared at the place where his master had disappeared, and he knew from past experience that he must have slept for years. He was feeble from starvation.

Now, Max was not your common cane toad. He was a sorcerer—a powerful one—and he only woke when his evil master needed him.

He could sense evil—feel it rising—and he longed to see his master’s face again. Max could not luxuriate in the rain for long. He needed to prepare for the war to come.

He hopped out of the desert, his massive red body surging with every leap, then landing like strawberry Jell-O with every heavy plop.

His honor guards followed.

Along the way, he found a rusty old spike that he thought he could use as a weapon.

It was near dawn when he reached the highway. The sun was a beautiful pink ball rising over the Cascade Mountain range, and the fields all around, planted in rye grass, were emerald green. Canada geese honked as they flew overhead on a cool wind.

He peered at farmhouses in the distance, the black-and-white cows in their fences, and thought,
Much has changed since last I awoke.

Years ago he had seen Indian villages with their lodge houses here. Instead of cattle, there had been elk and moose roaming the valley.

Max hopped out of the grass and across a strip of gravel, finding something strange—a great barren patch of black trail covered with bits of gravel and tar. The trail stretched as far as the toad could see in either direction, with thin, white stripes running down the middle.

“What’s this?” one of the guards, Caesar, asked. “It looks like a trail of some sort, but even a mammoth doesn’t walk on trails this wide—and it’s been awhile since we’ve seen one of those.”

The toads sat, pondering the trail.

Who could have made this and for what purpose?
they wondered.

It was early morning still, and a bee flew over Max’s head. He considered zapping it with his tongue, but he didn’t have a taste for honey-flavored stingers this morning.

Suddenly, down the blacktopped trail, he saw a beast coming. It made a blaring sound, like some enormous goose . . .

* * *

Freeway Freddy was carrying a heavy load in his big-rig truck that morning—several tons of prime baker’s potatoes out of Idaho—and he had no time to slow down for some silly animals.

He spotted the giant toads squatting on Highway 99 from nearly a mile away and blasted his horn. The toads didn’t move, so he chuckled to himself, “Mornin’ there, roadkill. Looks like you’re all on the highway to heaven.”

Freeway Freddy had given the toads fair warning. He made it a point to give every animal a fair warning before he ran it over.

He certainly wasn’t going to stop. He had to get his potatoes to market before they rotted or began to sprout.

So he floored the gas and barreled on . . .

* * *

Max the Toad Warrior stared death in the face. The truck came grumbling toward him like an enraged buffalo, the ground rumbling beneath Max’s toes.

“Uh, sir,” Caesar said, “I think that monster means to kill us.”

“The intent is mutual,” Max said.

With that, the honor guards both took mighty hops, landing on opposite sides of the highway, leaving the Toad Warrior to his own devices . . .

* * *

Freeway Freddy chortled with glee and grabbed his CB radio. “Breaker, breaker, good buddies,” he shouted into the mike. “Anyone out there in the mood for frog legs? I’m bout to flatten the fattest ol’ bullfrog you ever did see!”

The big rig thundered over the highway, drawing closer to the doomed toad. It was a huge creature, a reddish color that Freddy had never seen before, with golden eyes like the devil.

But what’s that in its paws?
Freddy wondered.

He peered down as he neared. The giant frog seemed to be holding something up in its paws. It had a stick or something, and it was waving it like a little sword.

“Well, I’ll be!” Freddy said in amazement as he hit the frog . . .

* * *

Max the Toad Warrior braced for impact with the giant truck. Just before it hit, he cast a small spell—one that gave him supernatural strength and made his bones harder than titanium.

Then Max threw himself against the front tire, stabbing it and pushing upward at the same instant . . .

* * *

The big rig truck reacted as if it had just hit a rock wall. The cab exploded upward, throwing Freeway Freddy a dozen feet in the air. The air bag deployed in his face, and Freddy couldn’t see a blasted thing for a moment.

Then the trailer behind him tipped, and the whole vehicle flipped on its side and went sliding down the freeway in a rain of splintering windshield, with the screams and groans of tortured metal.

When the truck finally ground to a halt, Freddy could see over the top of the air bag just enough to spot dozens of potatoes rolling along the highway, carried by the force of the crash.

Over the CB radio, some trucker with a thick southern accent said, “Ten-four, good buddy. That’s a pository on them frog legs. I’d be glad to have ’em. Them’s good eatin’!”

* * *

On the freeway, the three toads gathered into a small knot and surveyed the damage. The truck that had tried to run them over was lying on its side in ruin. The trailer had ripped open, spilling potatoes everywhere. The smell of diesel fuel filled the morning air.

Now the driver came crawling out the side window, shouting in wonder and alarm. He bounded to the ground and went racing away.

The three toads eyed him, and Max grinned in satisfaction.

The thing that attacked me wasn’t an animal at all,
he realized.
It’s a machine!

A fly came buzzing overhead, perhaps ten feet in the air. A normal toad would never have had a chance to catch it, but the Toad Warrior was far from normal.

He hopped eight feet up, zapped his sticky tongue out, expertly caught the fly on its tip, and then did a back flip as he landed perfectly on all fours.

The other toads gazed at him in admiration. “I love the taste of flies in the morning,” Caesar said softly.

Max rolled the dead fly around on his tongue, considering. The world had changed much since last he had awakened. There were strange new trails, new inhabitants in the land, and monsters beyond his imagination.

But the fly still tasted as sweet as ever.

“Yes,” the Toad Warrior agreed thoughtfully, “it tastes . . . like victory!”

Chapter 5

DAY OF PAPARAZZI

“. . . everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes.”

—ANDY WARHOL

Benjamin Ravenspell woke that morning feeling anxious. He hadn’t slept well that night. Oh, it was great sleeping in his own bed again—even if it was the size of a football field. It was even better because he got to have his mouse friends for a sleepover. They were still lying on the bed with him, about fifty of them.

But he’d been troubled by strange dreams during the night.

He’d dreamt that he was in his bedroom when he heard his mother’s old bamboo wind chimes clacking together out in the backyard. He’d thought that it was odd, because his mother had thrown them away years ago.

So he’d gotten out of bed, curious. When he did, the night was dark. Clouds raced across the sky. For a brief moment, he saw the wan outline of the moon overhead, and then a cloud blew in front of it, plunging the world into deepest night.

The bamboo wind chimes were still clacking, but it seemed that they were not down by the front porch. Instead, they were clacking out in the trees behind the house. It sounded as if they were moving, as if someone was carrying them away.

A thief is stealing my mom’s wind chimes!
Ben thought.

He ran outside to stop the crook and raced into the backyard.

He heard the clacking under the pine tree and shouted, “Hey, you! What do you think you’re doing?”

Just then, the clouds blew away from the moon, and in a sudden beam of light, Ben saw something: a hooded figure walking toward him—a figure whose hands were nothing but bones.

He heard the clacking and realized that it was not wind chimes at all—it was the creature’s bones rattling together.

The creature peered at him, and Ben saw the dark hollows of its eyes. It pulled back its hood, revealing a fearsome skull. The skeletal monster spoke, answering his question. “I am coming for you!”

* * *

The dream had wakened Ben, leaving his mouth dry and his heart pounding. For a long hour he’d stayed awake, terrified that he might hear bones clacking in the woods.

After a bit, he heard Amber whine in her sleep. He turned toward her and saw her little feet kicking as if she was running. “Ben, don’t leave me!” she said. “You can’t leave. I’ll die without you!”

She whimpered and kept on running. Ben lay beside her and wanted to comfort her. She was caught in her own nightmare, he realized. Unfortunately, when she woke up, the nightmare wouldn’t end.

He considered whispering into her ear, trying to comfort her, but he couldn’t promise to come with her, not even in her sleep.

So he lay down and put a paw on her neck, then stroked her gently. “I’m here now,” he whispered. “I’m here now, and that is all that matters.”

With the coming of day, he felt better, if not completely refreshed. The morning sun was up, shining through the gauzy white curtains of his room.

He heard a strange noise above the house. For an instant it sounded as if a helicopter was hovering overhead, and then the sound faded, then it returned again, then faded, then returned. It was very strange.

He leapt up onto the windowsill and spread the curtains. At that instant, a million lights went off. It was as bright as a nuclear bomb outside! Cameras began flashing everywhere.

Ben shaded his eyes with a paw and peered out the window. His entire backyard was filled with paparazzi—photo-journalists, reporters, news anchors. People began screaming, “Look! There’s a mouse in the window!” “Is it Amber?” “Is it Ben?”

But there were more than just reporters outside. Ben saw dozens of groupies, too. There were cute girls carrying signs that said, “We love Ben,” while others wore T-shirts that shouted, “Free the mice!”

Overhead, he heard that whirring sound again, and he looked up. Panic took him.

“Dad!” Ben screamed. “There’s a stealth helicopter hovering over our house!”

At that instant, a man in black peered from the open door of his helicopter and shouted, “Go! Go! Go!” Instantly, a bunch of other men wearing back leapt out of the helicopter and began slithering down long ropes toward the front door. One of the men had a very large gift basket.

“Dad!” Ben screamed. “There’s a bunch of black-ops CIA agents coming to our door bearing gifts!”

Instantly the doorbell rang.

Ben leapt down from the windowsill and raced for the front door. His screams had had little effect on his parents. He was only a mouse, after all, and he could only shout in mouse-sized squeaks.

So Ben ran to the front door and then had to just sit there, staring at it, because he could not open it. Fortunately the doorbell itself woke Ben’s dad, who got up groggily and went to the door in his underwear. He opened it just a tad and peeked out.

The black-ops CIA agents all stood on the porch grinning, while ten thousand paparazzi began flashing photographs of his dad’s World Wrestling Federation boxer shorts.

“Good morning, Mr. Ravenspell,” one of the CIA agents shouted. “I have a gift basket here, compliments of the president of the United States and your friendly neighborhood CIA. I
strongly
advise that you take it.”

The agent shoved the basket into his dad’s hands, and just for effect, he opened the lapel of his jacket widely enough so that Ben could see a small machine gun—an UZI—with a big silencer on it. The CIA agent flashed a smile and said, “The gifts are for Amber and Ben.”

Butch Ravenspell smiled nervously and tried to shut the door, but suddenly some reporter with legs about ten feet long shoved his foot in the crack.

There were confused shouts from the reporters. “Is it true that Amber intends to turn
everyone
in the world into mice?” one reporter cried. Before Ben could deny the accusation, another woman said, “Is it true that Amber has fleas?” A third shouted at Ben, “Do you and Amber really want to get married?”

Ben was about to answer some questions when his dad shouted, “Ben will hold a press conference with the first reporter who hands him a suitcase with one million dollars in it!”

Then he slammed the door. Butch stood for a moment, grinning. “That ought to hold them for a while!” He set the huge gift basket on the floor. Inside was an assortment of cheeses, breads, and fruit juices—all covered with cellophane in the colors of the American flag. A Mylar-covered helium balloon was tied onto the bag and hovered overhead. On one side of the balloon was the gold-colored seal of the president of the United States. On the other side of the balloon was a picture of a CIA agent holding a smoking gun next to his face, sort of like a James Bond poster. Underneath the picture was the slogan, “Your friendly neighborhood CIA!”

Someone rang the doorbell. Butch rolled his eyes and said, “Now what?”

Butch opened the door a crack.

Ben could see the CIA agents slithering back up the ropes into their helicopter. Four reporters stood at the door, each fighting to shove his or her own suitcase through first. “I’ve got dibs!” one announcer from
60 Minutes
shouted.

Butch grinned at Ben and opened the door just wide enough so that the reporters could push their suitcases in.

“Ben,” his dad said, “go tell your mouse friends to start packing their bags. We’re going to Disneyland!”