What I Wore to Save the World (13 page)

I took a deep breath to clear my head. “Mr. McAlister. This strange message, about me saving the world—can you guess what it means?”

He looked grim. “I regret to say I haven't a clue. But I will certainly assist in whatever way I can as you endeavor to find out. To be frank, it's a matter of professional interest! And now, if I may ask you a question, Morganne—or Mor gan, if that's how you prefer to be known—how did Colin come across that message in the first place?”

“It was scratched in the forest floor by a, um, unicorn,” I mumbled.

“A
unicorn
?” Mr. McAlister leaped up from his chair. “Oh my goodness! That is simply unprecedented. Things are getting out of hand. Something is wrong; very wrong indeed.”

He paced around the tiny room, gesturing wildly. “The fact that you've been summoned at all indicates that this is truly a crisis. And unicorns!” Then he looked at me, quite grave. “You must go find them at once.”

“I will, I promise. Tomorrow I'll go to the woods and—”

“Tomorrow could be too late!” He was so agitated, his Scrooge nightcap was bouncing up and down. “Understand this: No magical creatures are more passionate about keeping their existence hidden than the unicorns. They would never have revealed themselves to a human if it weren't a dire emergency.”

“I'll go tonight, then.” I stood up too. “I'll sneak out as soon as Colin and Grandpap are asleep.”

“Good. And remember, all of us—the whole world—will be counting on you, Morganne,” he said ominously.

I yawned in spite of myself. The thought of wandering the woods alone in the middle of the night was not making me happy, but Mr. McAlister was in a full-blown panic and I figured there must be a reason. “Yeah, I get that. I just hope these unicorns can explain what the fek is going on. Whoops! Sorry about the language, it's a bad habit.”

“No need to apologize,” he said. There was no mistaking the fear in his eyes. “I was thinking
precisely
the same thing.”

 

 

 

mr. mcalister offered to walk me back to the Seahorse, but once he pointed me in the right direction I could see the lights up the path. It wasn't very far. And, face it, the guy was like a hundred and fifty years old, plus he was already in his pajamas. What kind of bodyguard could I really expect him to be? I assured him I'd be fine.

I was worried that Colin would quiz me about my new-found expertise in mansard roofs and fluted whatchamacall ems, but apparently I'd been at Mr. McAlister's a lot longer than I'd planned. By the time I got back to the Seahorse, Grandpap was snoring in the back bedroom and Colin was stretched out asleep on the living room sofa. I tried to be quiet and get to the stairs without waking him, but he rolled over and started mumbling.

“Mor? Everything okay?”

“Everything's fine.” I knelt by the sofa and smooched him on the forehead. “How's Grandpap?”

“Couldn't find his glasses; lookin' at the cards was givin' him a headache, that's all.” He rolled over to face me but his eyes stayed closed. “Tell me about the fluted thingies.”

“I'll tell you in the morning. Go back to sleep.”

“Right . . . bright and early . . . make breakfast . . . save world . . .”

“Sounds like a plan,” I whispered. He was out cold again. There was a crocheted afghan thrown over the back of the sofa—in a seashell pattern, of course. I tucked it around Colin's legs and turned off the light.

I knew I should grab some Z's too, considering what I needed to do that night. But there was something I wanted to check first. After I tippytoed my way upstairs I made a beeline for my suitcase.

The Oxford brochure was still tucked in the outer pocket, wrinkled from its travels but perfectly readable. The idea that there was a secret library at Oxford containing ancient faery books—books that mentioned
me
, no less—was so mind-boggling, I just wanted to see if there was a photograph of the building anywhere.

The Bod, the Bod, the Bod.
I flipped the pages.
I could have sworn there was a picture . . .

I found it. It was an old photo; judging from the clothes I'd say it was from the 1920s. The caption read:

There he was, third Oxonian from the left, chillin' with his soon-to-be-famous home skillets in those wild, wacky, pre-Narnia, pre-hobbit days at school, many decades before Orlando Bloom was even born. He looked younger, of course, but it was Mr. McAlister, no question.

That's why he seemed familiar to me,
I thought.
I've been looking at his picture for the past two days.

Then I finished reading the caption:

C. Phineas?
My
Mr. Phineas?

Wait—so Mr. Phineas was
also
at Oxford in the olden days? Was
also
somehow drinking the antiaging Kool-Aid? Had
also
failed to get the memo that men's pants had gotten significantly longer since 1925?

Or maybe that was his father in the picture, and the Mr. Phineas I'd met was really a “junior.” Or maybe it was no relation, a different Phineas altogether. It was impossible to tell from the photo, since the guy identified as C. Phineas was standing behind the other three and holding a book in front of his face.

Fek. Another mystery.

I got in bed, still dressed, and set my travel alarm. Half an hour should be enough of a power nap to keep me going. All I had to do was make my escape without waking Colin or Grandpap.

The question briefly crossed my mind: What would Colin think if caught me sneaking out? Would he be amused? Puzzled? Furious?

I shoved the alarm under my pillow so only I would hear it.
Sorry it has to be this way, honey
, I thought, as I drifted off.
But I need to talk to the unicorns alone . . .

twelve

my eyes flew open. my heart raced. what time was it? Had I overslept? Missed the bus?
Damn, now I'm gonna be late for school—

I grabbed my watch off the nightstand and peered at it in the dark. It was four A.M. Then it came back to me: I was in Wales, and I was supposed to save the world, and the fekkin' cheap travel alarm never went off. Great.

Nobody said this saving the world stuff would be easy,
I scolded myself, as I dragged myself out of bed.
Suck it up and pretend you're a superhero.
My mission: go wandering in a strange forest alone to look for unicorns in the dark, and be back in time for breakfast.

Of course, if I really were some kind of übercool superhero I might have some actual superpowers to rely on, or at least a few useful gadgets: designer sunglasses that turned into night vision goggles, or a personal GPS with a “find unicorn” setting. At this point I'd have been happy with an extra sweater, frankly, because it was freezing out and my hoodie was still draped over that creepy picture of Queen Titania. Which is where it was going to stay.

But I had no superpowers or gadgets. I was nothing but a shivering half-goddess, silently ransacking the kitchen drawers trying to find a freakin' flashlight in the dark without waking Colin or Grandpap. And I was having no luck whatsoever.

Fail! I closed the last drawer. Time to take a deep breath and give myself a pep talk.
I can do this blind,
I thought. I just needed to take it step-by-step: Follow the path to the boardwalk, follow the boardwalk to the forest, follow the trail marked “Faery Glen” into the woods. It'd be just like following the Yellow Brick Road to find Oz. If I steered clear of wicked witches and flying monkeys, I'd be fine.

But once I made it in to see the Wizard, then what? Would the unicorns be friend or foe? And was there any hope that I could deal with this faery-world emergency and still keep my half-goddess mojo on the down-low? Maybe then I could squeeze in a romantic summer vacay with Colin before my parents realized I'd gone AWOL and called Interpol to kidnap me and drag me home.

I deserve a final bit of fun,
I thought grimly.
Because once I get busted about ditching the Oxford tour I'm going to be grounded for life. I'll only be permitted to leave the house to go to my deeply unsatisfying job as an X-ray technician.

I let myself out of the cottage as quietly as I could and looked around. The moon had already come and gone and the stars were doing their usual far-off twinkling thing, which didn't provide much help in the ambient lighting department. All the light switches in the various cottages and buildings of Castell Cyfareddol were in the OFF position. Their residents, unlike some miserable people I could name, were asleep.

I took a few steps and nearly tripped over the jockey-on-a-seahorse statue. I eyed his lantern with envy.

“Any chance that thing lights up?” I whispered.

No answer from the jockey.
Whoosh! Two points for reality,
I thought.

It would have been easy to get completely turned around in the dark, so I took a few experimental steps to make sure I was walking uphill, in the direction of the boardwalk. Soon I fell into a hesitant rhythm. Right foot forward, put my weight on it, step. Left foot forward, put my weight on it, step.

At this rate I figured it would be sometime next week before I found the forest. But I made progress, and finally the footing changed from cool sand to smooth planks of wood. The uphill slope flattened out. I'd reached the boardwalk. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and I could make out basic shapes—was that a curious glint in the eye of the dragon statue that guarded the path?

Maybe it would be smarter to wait for morning,
my inner wimpy voice suggested.
What's a few hours one way or another? And why was this my problem, anyway? Didn't the unicorns have anybody else on speed dial?

Wimpy voice was damned convincing, I have to say. And it wouldn't shut up.
All I have to do is stop. And go back to the cottage. And get back into my nice, snuggly bed.

A streak of light whizzed by my face. Before I could catch enough breath to shriek I realized it was a firefly. It made me think of Tammy, who loved to chase the little light-up bugs and was always horrified when my dad suggested she put one in a jar.

“Wish there were a bunch more of you, pal,” I muttered. I'd layered on three T-shirts but my arms were bare except for the goose bumps. Light and warmth—two great concepts that I had obviously failed to appreciate enough in my life until now.

Then I noticed another bug chasing after the first.
The firefly life cycle must be different in Wales,
I thought, shivering.
At home we usually don't see them until August.

Another firefly. The three bugs flew in formation, making patterns in the dark that my eye was almost able to register before they disappeared. It was like when you try to write your name in the air with the tip of a lit sparkler by waving it really fast—your eye can hold the image for
almost
long enough to read the letters—almost, but not quite . . .

All of a sudden there were ten fireflies. Then twenty. Now I was getting anxious. Did fireflies swarm? Form angry mobs? Were they dangerous when provoked, like killer bees? Why hadn't I paid more attention in science class?

Think, Morgan!
I vaguely recalled something about monarch butterflies migrating in groups. And I knew ladybugs swarmed, because we'd found a cluster of them on the wall of the garage one year and Tammy cried and begged my dad not to spray them with pesticide. “They're not nasty boy bugs! They're
ladybugs
!” she'd bawled.

I tried to stay calm. Despite the nerve-wracking example set by killer bees and flesh-eating ants, I decided it was highly unlikely that fireflies were capable of cooperative attack behavior. I mean, evolutionarily speaking, wasn't making your ass light up enough of an achievement? But I had to admit that the on-again, off-again phosphorescent glow of this particular flock—herd?—invasion?—was doing a pretty good job of illuminating the path. They circled and swirled in front of me, keeping pace as I walked.

I could only see ahead as far as the fireflies lit up for me, so I couldn't gauge how far off the end of the boardwalk was, and I had no idea how long I'd been walking. It came as a total surprise when, all at once, the wooden walkway beneath my feet ended and I found myself standing on mossy ground.

I breathed it in, a damp, foresty smell. I'd made it! The sign pointing to the Faery Glen must be just ahead.

I walked forward blindly, arms extended like I was playing pin the tail on the donkey. My firefly pals must have lost patience. Now numbering in the hundreds, they swirled, swooped and landed in a flickering border around the very sign I was looking for: “This Way to the Faery Glen.”

For added effect, their butt-lights were timed like chaser lights around a billboard. It wasn't Vegas, but you had to appreciate the effort.

“Very impressive, bugs,” I said.

“You think that's impressive?” a low, melodious voice whinnied back from the darkness. “You should see what we can do with our hooooooooorns!”

And then, as if someone flicked a switch, a hundred whorled glow sticks lit up in front of me. Some were held straight up, some were horizontal, some were angled and crossed against one another. It was like that stupid YMCA dance, where you stick your arms out in different directions to make the letters.

Except these were unicorn horns, and they spelled:

“are you all right? moooooorgan? can you hear me?” A warm, soft muzzle pushed gently against my head.