The Journal of Curious Letters (The 13th Reality #1) (23 page)

Another one flew out of the trees, missing him badly.

“Rutger, is that you?” Tick said, cupping his hands around his mouth to amplify his voice.

No reply came, but a few seconds later another rock shot out, this time smacking him in the forehead. “Ow!” he yelled. “Do you really have to do that?”

“Yes!” a male voice said from within the thick trees.

Grinning, Tick crossed the street and stepped into the forest.

~

It didn’t take long to find them. Rutger, his stomach sucked in as far as it would go—which wasn’t much—hid behind a tall, thin tree with no branches, his body jutting out on both sides. Mothball, on the other hand, was trying her best to squat behind a short, leafy bush, her head poking at least two feet above its top, her eyes closed as if that would somehow make her invisible.

It was one of the most ridiculous things Tick had ever seen.

“Uh, you guys really stink at hide-and-seek,” he said. Both of them stepped out from their hiding places, faking disgust.

They looked the same as the first time he’d met them. Rutger, incredibly short and round as a bowling ball, still wore his black clothes and the shoes and mittens Tick had given him months ago, though it seemed too warm for the outfit. Mothball had different clothes on, but they were still gray and hung on her eight-foot-tall frame like flags with no wind. The forest floor was mushy and wet and water dripped on them from the branches above.

“’Ello, little sir,” the giant woman said, a huge smile crossing her wide face.

“Looks like you’re a lot smarter than we thought,” the tiny Rutger added—well, tiny in terms of height. If anything, he looked even
fatter
than the last time Tick had seen him. “But . . . I don’t suppose you brought any
food?
”

“Man, am I glad to see you guys again,” Tick said, ignoring Rutger’s plea for something to eat. “What took you so long?”

“’Tis all part of the plan, it is,” Mothball said in her thick accent, folding her huge arms together. “Master George—he’s a smart old chap—reckoned he’d take a long wait and see who stuck it out. You know, weed out the ninnies with no patience.”

“Last time you guys wouldn’t tell me M.G.’s name,” Tick said.

Rutger reached out and lightly slapped Tick on the leg. “Well, you figured it out yourself, now didn’t you? Wouldn’t it seem silly for us to not say his name when you already know what it is? Good job, old boy, good job!”

Tick knew he probably had little time available to him and wished he’d sat down to organize all of his questions before going out. He had a million things he wanted to ask, but his mind felt like soup in a blender. “So . . . how many kids like me are left? How many are still getting the clues?”

Rutger stared up at the sky as he slowly counted on his fingers. When he got to ten, he quit and looked at Tick. “Can’t tell you.”

“Thanks.”

Mothball shifted her large body and leaned back against a tree. “Master George sends his regrets on the bit of trouble you had in the northern parts. Never meant that to happen, he didn’t.”

Tick squinted his eyes in confusion. “Wait a minute, what do you mean by that?” He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something about her statement struck him as odd.

Rutger cleared his throat, trying to take the attention away from Mothball, whose face suddenly revealed she’d said something she wasn’t supposed to.

“All my good friend means,” Rutger said, “is that we never expected our, uh, enemy to catch up with you so quickly. Don’t worry, though, we’ve, uh, taken care of the problem for now.” He rolled his eyes and turned around, whistling.

“Didn’t help matters much there, now did ya, my short friend?” Mothball muttered.

A swarm of confusion buzzed inside Tick’s head, and he felt like the answer was somewhere right in the middle if he could just get to it. “But . . . what about the Gnat Rat thing, and the Tingle Wraith? You make it sound like—”

“Come on, now,” Mothball said, straightening back to her full height. “Time’s a-wasting, little sir. Got a lot to talk about, we do.”

“But—”

“Mister Higginbottom!” Rutger interjected, spinning his wide body around to look at Tick once again. “I immediately demand you cease these questions, uh, immediately!”

Mothball snorted. “You just said
immediately
two times in the same sentence, you lug. Methinks he gets the point without you blowin’ a lung and all.”

Rutger fidgeted back and forth on his short legs, as if he’d only spouted off to save themselves from getting deeper into trouble. “Just trying to . . . teach the young master some patience and, uh, other . . . things like patience.”

“You two are without a doubt the strangest people I’ve ever met,” Tick said.

“Try living with a million Rutgers in one city,” Mothball said. “That’ll give you weak knees.” She paused, then laughed. “Quite literally, actually, if the little folks are in the punching mood.”

“Very funny, Flagpole,” Rutger said.

“Thanks much, Bread Dough,” she countered.

Tick thought it was fun watching the two friends argue, but he was hoping for answers. “Did you guys get me out here for a reason or what? And what’s up with the phone call from Master George?”

“Been sittin’ here all ruddy day, we ’ave,” Mothball said. “’Ad to spur you a bit, burn your bottoms to get a move on.”

“Couldn’t you have just knocked on my door?”

“What, and get the detectives called in? Spend the rest of me life in a Reality Prime zoo?”

Tick held up a hand. “Whoa, time out—what does that mean?”

“What?” Mothball asked, looking at her fingernails as though considering a manicure.

“What’s ‘Reality Prime’?” His mind spun, the word
reality
jarring something in his brain.

Mothball looked over at Rutger, shrugging her bony shoulders. “Methinks the little sir’s gotten hit over the head, he has. Did
you
’ear me say that?”

“Say what?” Rutger asked, his face a mask of exaggerated innocence.

“I’ve already forgotten.”

Tick groaned as loud as he could. “I’m not an idiot, guys.”

Rutger reached up and grabbed Tick by the arm. “We know, kid, we know. So quit acting like one. We’ll tell you what you need to know when you’re ready, not a second before.”

“So what, I can’t ask questions?”

“Bet yer best buttons you can—ask away,” Mothball said. “Just don’t complain like a Rutger when we say mum’s the word.”

“Now wait just one minute . . .” Rutger said, letting go of Tick and pointing a finger at Mothball.

“I get it, I get it,” Tick said before Rutger could continue. He thought about the list of words in his journal he’d heard from these two, framing questions inside his mind. “Okay, what’s a kyoopy? Can you answer that?”

Mothball and Rutger exchanged a long look, signifying to Tick that this was no longer a black-and-white issue—which would be to his advantage. “Come on,” he urged. “As long as you don’t tell me how to figure out the clues, what does it matter if I know a little bit about what’s behind all this?”

“Fair enough, methinks,” Mothball said. “Master George does seem a bit more willing to let on. I mean, he called you on the telly, didn’t he?” She gestured toward Rutger. “Go on, little man, tell him ’bout the kyoopy.”

Rutger scowled. “Do I look like Hans Schtiggenschlubberheimer to you?”

“Hans
who
?” Mothball and Tick asked in unison.

Rutger looked like someone had just asked him what gravity was. “Excuse me? Hans Schtiggenschlubberheimer? The man who started the Scientific Revolution in the Fourth Reality? If it weren’t for him, Reginald Chu would never have—” He stopped, looking uncertainly at Tick. “This is impossible, not knowing what we can and can’t say in front of you. Blast it all, I can’t wait until the special day gets here.”

Of course, right then Tick thought of his teacher, Mr. Chu, just as he had when he saw “Chu Industries” on the Gnat Rat. But just like before, he didn’t think it could have anything to do with his science instructor—it had to be a coincidence. “Who is Reginald Chu?” he asked. “And what kind of awful name is
Reginald
?”

“It’s not a very fortunate name,” Rutger agreed. “Downright stinky if you ask me. Fits the man, though, considering what he’s done. Started out with good intentions, I’m sure, but he and his company have done awful, awful things.”

“Well, what’s he done? And what is the Fourth Reality? What are
any
of the realities? Are there other versions of the universe or something?”

Mothball sighed. “This is balderdash, really.” She leaned over and put a hand on Tick’s shoulder. “Rutger’s spot on, he is. We just don’t know what to talk about with you. Methinks Master George will explain everything—if you make it that far.”

“Listen to me,” Rutger said. “Focus your mind on the clues for now. Don’t worry about all this other stuff. You can do it, and it will all be worth it—when the
day
comes. You’ll be taken to a very important place.”

Tick felt incredibly frustrated. “Fine, but at least . . . Can you just answer one question? Just one.”

Rutger nodded.

“Can you tell me, in one sentence each, the definition of a kyoopy and the definition of a . . . a reality. No details, and I won’t ask any more questions about it.”

Rutger looked up at Mothball, who shrugged her shoulders. “Blimey, just do it. The poor lad’s mind might explode if we don’t.”

“All right.” Rutger took a deep breath. “Kyoopy is a nickname for the theory of science that explains the background of everything we’re about.” He paused. “And a Reality is a place, uh, or a
version
of a place, if you will, that comes about
because
of the kyoopy.” He looked up at Mothball. “Wow, that was good.”

Right at that very second, something clicked for Tick and he felt like an idiot for missing it before. “Wait a second . . . kyoopy. You mean . . . Q . . . P . . . right? Q.P.?”

Rutger looked confused. “Was I saying it wrong before? Yes, yes! Q.P.”

“Looks like the little sir is on to something,” Mothball said, a satisfied smile on her lips, but Tick’s mind was in another world at that moment. Q.P. He’d heard that phrase before from Mr. Chu, and he couldn’t wait to ask him about it again.

Kyoopy. Q.P.

Quantum physics.

“Now,” Rutger said, clearing his throat, “could we
please
move on? I believe you’ll be wanting the next clue.”

~

The air had grown cooler as the sun made its way across the sky and toward the horizon. The drip-drip-drip of the melting snow slowed considerably, and Tick shivered as he eagerly waited to see the next clue.

Mothball pulled out a familiar yellow envelope, though this one seemed thicker than the others, and a separate piece of white paper had been stapled to the upper left corner, its edges flapping loosely as she handled it. After a long look at Rutger, Mothball handed the package over to Tick, who snapped it out of her hand without meaning to look so anxious.

“Thanks,” he said, fingering the note attached to the envelope. “What’s this?”

“Flip it over and read it,” Rutger answered. “Thought you could at least figure
that
out by yourself.”

“Very funny,” Tick muttered as he did what he was told, lifting the paper to read the few sentences typed on the back:

Within you will find the next four clues in the sequence, numbers 7, 8, 9, and 10. Now, most certainly you will read these and conclude to yourself that I, your humble servant, have gone batty because they don’t seem like clues at all. I will only say this: EVERYTHING you receive is a clue.

Tick looked up at Mothball then down at Rutger, whose folded arms were resting on his huge belly. “Four clues at once?”

“He’s a bit hasty,” Mothball said. “You see, has to be
twelve
clues, there does, and we’ve only got a short time to go, ya know.”