27

The Dreamdoodle

FOR YOUR SAKE, dear Reader, I hope you will never spend your birthday worrying that you have provoked a trio of Morfolk-guts-hating magical hags. This was how Anastasia passed the journey back to the palace, and very unpleasant it was. While Ollie and Quentin shimmied into their breeches at the back of the gondola, she pondered sautéed tonsils. Amidst the Dreadfuls’ terror-stricken row through the tangled canal system, she imagined souffléd eyeballs. Even as they leapt from the hijacked boat and clambered back into the palace and raced through the halls to the darkened Cavern of Dreams, she wondered just how long it might take to properly boil bones.

“The antibiotic!” Ollie crashed into her reverie. “Get the antibiotic!”

“It’s antidote, you pudding,” Quentin corrected him.

Anastasia fumbled for the golden vial. “How do you think it works? Are we supposed to pour it down Saskia’s throat or put it in her ears?”

Gus scrutinized the comatose princess. “Well, the bedbugs are in her ears.”

Anastasia pulled out the stopper, and little bits of gold sizzled from the bottle’s rim like the twinkles that toot from the rump of a shooting star.

“Ooooooh!” Ollie breathed. “Pretty!”

“Thieves! Grime-livered pirates!”

Anastasia whirled. “Oh, biscuit crumbs!”

The sinister Wish Hags hovered at the verge of the darkened dream dell. This specter was in itself enough to jellify the giblets of a battle-hardened warlord; and yet behind the hags there loomed something even worse—yes, something more fearsome by far.

“What is that?” Gus gasped.

“Meet our little pet, Borg!” the hags shrilled.

“Little?” Quentin echoed.

Borg was anything but little. He was perhaps ten feet tall, with gangling arms and gargantuan hands. The hem of his long black coat now whispered against the forest floor as he paced betwixt the hags, much like an impatient vulture. The avian affinity didn’t end there: although a wide-brimmed hat shadowed Borg’s eyes, the curve of his great, sharp bone-white beak was clearer than a sickle moon at midnight.

Anastasia, who as a rule loved all animals great and small, swiftly made an exception. The sight of this claw-faced man-bird scared her witless.

“Borg doesn’t take kindly to nasty, rotten thieves who steal our wish-goop!” the bespectacled hag screaked.

“W-wish-goop?” Anastasia stuttered, corking the vial and closing her hand around it. “What wish-goop?”

“Don’t play dumb, Morfling,” the tallest hag hissed. “We know some sticky-fingers here took a vial of our special Hag Brew.”

“She’s got it right now,” said the hag with bottles in her hair. “I can hear her crooked little heart beating. Thumpity-bumpity-bump. Are you frightened, little thief? Thumpity-thumpity. A thief’s heart always beats like that.”

The hags edged closer, chanting, “Thumpity. Thumpity. Bumpity.”

“Get back, you rotten prunes!” Ollie hollered.

The old women screeched with laughter, their chain mail jingling. The tall hag withdrew a small black bottle from the folds of her dress. “A wish, a wish! I have a wish! A wish to catch a thief therewith!” She lobbed the flasket against the Canopy, where it exploded into cloud of smoke.

One moment Anastasia’s galoshes were firmly grounded; the next they flailed several feet above Calixto’s bedeviled bed. Her rib cage twanged between Borg’s awful meat hooks. How had the monstrous man-bird crossed the vale so swiftly? The hags’ powerful brew must have sped him there. Pippistrella squeaked and battered Borg’s hat with her wings, but he didn’t even seem to notice her.

“Now, Borg: get our goop back!” the hags enjoined.

“Let her go!” Gus shouted, balling his hands into fists and dashing forward.

“Away, away, you thoughtless knave!” A bottle of brew sailed through the air and crashed against his leg. Gus catapulted into the prickly hug of a pine tree, where he lolled like a puppet with snipped strings.

“You hag!” Quentin swore. “Ollie! Umbrate and bite!”

“Ah, ah, ah!” The closest crone pulled a bottle from her tangled hair and crushed it. A stream of silvery potion drizzled from her bony fist. “Looking glass upon the ground, lock them in a prison round!” The wish-goop zinged across the dell and snaked into a ring around the Shadowboys.

Quentin stopped short at the glinting border. “It’s some kind of liquid mirror!”

“We’re trapped!” Ollie howled.

Throughout this horrible hullabaloo, Borg gripped Anastasia harder and harder, squooshing the last wafts of oxygen from her hapless lungs. His beak scissored open, revealing rows of jagged teeth.

“Your monster is going to kill her!” Ollie cried. “Please, just let Anastasia go!”

“Not without our brew!” the hags sang.

“Just do it, Anastasia!” Quentin yelled. “Just give the stuff back to them!”

But Anastasia couldn’t move. She dangled in Borg’s cruel clench, her vision blurring. Her fingers loosened from the vial of Comacure and the glass slipped from her sweaty hand. If she could have said anything, she would have keened,

“No!”

or “It was all for naught!”

But Anastasia couldn’t make a peep. She couldn’t breathe. The bottle plummeted to the ground, the shatter of its sides like a tiny death knoll. The hags moaned, “All gone! All gone!”

“If you can really hear her heart, listen!” Quentin implored. “It’s going to stop!”

Bump. Bump…bump. It was true: Anastasia’s ticker was no longer thumping a fearful tattoo.

The bespectacled hag clasped her hands. “Oh, mercy me! Borg, put that stinky little child down right this instant! We don’t really want to kill anybody!”

“Borg!”

“Bad Borg! Bad!”

The hags shrilled as Borg lifted Anastasia higher, champing his deadly bill. Her head spun with the flickering faraway magical stars, faster and faster until, at last, everything went black.

Gentle Reader, have you ever fainted? For some people, fainting feels like all the blood is draining from your brain down to your toes. Your head goes light as a helium balloon and your legs get heavy as sacks of wet flour, and then you’re in never-never land. Other people have time to gasp and the foresight to swoon onto, for example, a cushy beanbag chair. And other people don’t even know it’s coming. Out they zonk without a whimper.

In Anastasia’s case, she drifted to a quiet place where she was remembering. A memory from her early childhood flooded her brain, squeezing out all the pain and fear and confusion. She remembered, with crystalline clarity, the first time she ever tasted cotton candy.

The warm, sweet smell.

The softness. Cloud softness dissolving on her tongue.

Then a prickle of sugar explosions, like each taste bud was a tiny firecracker.

And, finally, the melted sugar seeping down her throat.

Her father’s voice: “Yummy, isn’t it? Let’s give Muffy a nibble, too.”

She sighed and smiled.

“Anastasia! Anastasia! There…I think she’s coming to. Oh, thank goodness.”

The sugary taste faded and her eardrums clanged. Anastasia forced her eyelids open. Anxious faces floated above and around her: Gus and Ollie and Quentin and also the three hags, their mouths pulled into fretful frowns…and Penny and Baldwin and Wiggy. Wiggy cradled Saskia in her arms.

Crumbs.

“When did you get here?” Anastasia mumbled.

“I returned from my meeting and found the door to the Cavern of Dreams ajar, and quite an affray from within,” Wiggy said.

“And we got back from abovecaves at about the same time,” Penny said, squeezing Anastasia’s hand. “Oh, my dear child! We were so worried!”

“Peep!” Pippistrella nuzzled Anastasia’s cheek.

“Borg…,” she rasped. “Where’s Borg?”

“Sound asleep,” Baldwin said. “Snoozing over by the Canopy—or what’s left of it.”

The ringing in her ears dwindled to a painful buzz. Anastasia sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Snoozing?”

“Like a bear in the dark depths of winter,” Baldwin said. “Practically hibernating.”

“ ’Twas very odd,” said the bespectacled hag. “We all thought Borgie was going to crunch you to bits, but all of a sudden he just dropped you and conked out.”

“I’m afraid he fell on your bed,” said the tall hag. “Smashed it to smithereens.”

“Fortunately, he didn’t smash Saskia,” Ollie said.

“Listen to him snore!” giggled the hag with bottles in her hair.

They all went silent for a minute, hearkening the funny tootling coming from the Canopy.

“It sounds rather like a flute,” Quentin mused. “Or—no; I stand corrected. A piccolo.”

“It’s his nose,” explained the tall hag. “Long, you know.”

“I do know.” Anastasia shuddered. “Long and sharp and full of teeth.”

“That isn’t really how Borg looks,” Spectacles said. “We just wished for him to be a frightful creature, to scare you into giving us back our wish-goop. But really, he’s just the biggest sweetums!”

“Cute as a button!” Baldwin agreed.

“Cute?” Anastasia staggered to her feet and pushed past the hags to stare at the creature napping atop the smashed Canopy. “Wait. This is Borg?”

“Indeed it is!”

Anastasia had never beheld an anteater up close before, but she had the idea that Borg resembled one of these fine animals crossed with a Labradoodle. He had curly fur, flopsy ears, and big, fluffy feet. And as the hags had mentioned, an extra-long fuzzy trunk.

She couldn’t help herself. She said, “Awwww.”

The Dreadfuls crowded around Borg and started patting and petting him.

“See? A little angel!” one of the hags declared.

“He wasn’t such an angel a couple of minutes ago,” Penny protested. “He nearly devoured my niece.”

“We never meant for Borgie to get quite so feisty,” said Bottle Hair. “But, you see, it’s been ages since he’s had a chance to get out and romp! He just got too excited.”

“We’ve been cramped at the bottom of that well for centuries,” added the tall hag. “Poor Borgie needed to stretch his legs.”

“Anyway,” concluded Tall One, “don’t think for one moment that Borgie would actually have eaten the princess. His diet is very specialized, you see, and children are not on the menu.”

“You don’t give him souffléd eyeballs and fricasseed brains?” Ollie asked.

“Certainly not!” Spectacles said. “How revolting!”

“What I don’t quite understand,” mused Bottle Hair, “is why Borg fell asleep right in the middle of the hubbub.”

“Maybe he’s narcoleptic,” Baldwin suggested.

“What does that mean?” Gus asked.

“A narcoleptic falls asleep at odd moments,” Penny said. “They can’t control it.”

Baldwin nodded. “My old friend Bernard was a narcoleptic. He fell asleep two minutes into his routine at the Dinkledorf Ice Skating Championship. Tragic! Woke up to find himself spread-eagled on the pond after everyone else had left.” His green eyes grew twinkly with tears. “And you don’t even want to hear about his last skydiving attempt.”

“That’s all very interesting,” said Tall One, “but Borg is not narcoleptic.”

A golden glimmer amidst the pine needles caught Anastasia’s eye and she felt at her collar. “Oh. I think I know what happened.” She stooped. Mrs. Wata’s locket was butterflied open, facedown on the ground. Anastasia carefully clicked it shut. “Borg saw a gorgon picture.”

“Where did that come from?” Penny cried.

“Um…we borrowed it from my mom,” Gus said. The Beastly Dreadfuls shifted uneasily.

“Does this explain the sleeping guard bat outside my cavern?” Wiggy asked.

Anastasia nodded, her cheeks burning.

“Clever!” Baldwin said.

“And potentially dangerous, were the wrong person to get ahold of it,” Wiggy said. “I’ll take that.” She held out her hand.

Worried glances tiddlywinked between the Dreadfuls. “Will Mrs. Wata get into trouble?” Anastasia asked. “She didn’t even know that I had it.”

“Nonetheless, gorgon portraits are illegal,” Wiggy said, pocketing the locket.

“The necklace saved Anastasia’s life,” Penny pointed out.

“Like we said, Borgie wouldn’t really have eaten her,” insisted Tall One.

“But he nearly crushed her rib cage!” Penny exclaimed. “For goodness’ sake, just look what he did to that bed!”

“Sorry about that,” said Spectacles.

Anastasia gazed mournfully at the smashed Canopy, the singed moon, and the golden bits of the Comacure bottle twinkling like broken stars on the pillow. The quest to find Nicodemus and Fred had screeched to a sudden, disastrous halt, and Saskia would writhe in a coma until Calixto’s bedbugs munched the last of her thoughts.

“We didn’t mean for things to get so rough,” repeated Spectacles, “but you did trespass in our home and you did steal our wish-goop.”

“I know.” Anastasia sighed. “It’s because my cousin is in some sort of coma. A magical witch-coma. We were going to”—her voice wobbled—“save her.”

“Oh dear,” said Tall One.

“Can you brew up more Comacure?” Gus asked.

“We could,” said Bottle Hair, “but I’m afraid that won’t help your sleeping princess. We brew first-rate goop, but our wishes aren’t powerful enough to break a witch’s spell.”

“Why was your cousin tangling with a witch, anyway?” demanded Tall One. “There aren’t any witches in the Cavelands.”

“The Moonsilk Canopy is a magical bed, and Saskia tried to nap in it,” Wiggy said. “She didn’t realize that Calixto Swift had enchanted it.”

“Calixto Swift?” cried Spectacles. “Very powerful!”

“Most dangerous!” said Tall One.

“A bunch of creepy nightmare bedbugs hopped into Saskia’s ears,” Ollie said. “And then she started moaning and shaking.”

“How inconvenient,” clucked Bottle Hair.

“It’s more than inconvenient!” Quentin said. “Saskia’s stuck in a nightmare until she dies!”

“She’s just a little girl,” Penny agonized.

“What are you crying for?” screeched Tall One. “Our Borgie is a dreamdoodle, for bat’s sake. Didn’t you know that?”

“A dreamdoodle?” Anastasia asked. “I thought he was just an anteater—anteaterdoodle.”

“No, no, no!” Tall One said. “Borg is a dreamdoodle. A dreameater, some might call him.”

“Dreameaters!” Ollie exclaimed. “Pliny the Eldest Elder talks about those in his book! See, guys? I told you those creatures were real!”

“Of course Borgie is real,” said Bottle Hair. “And he can take care of your princess’s ear infestation.”

“Really?” Anastasia said.

“Very handy to have a dreamdoodle around when you’re in our line of work,” said Spectacles. “He’ll catch those dream bugs with his wonderful snozzle.”

“But I thought you said you couldn’t break a witch’s spell,” Gus said.

“We won’t,” said Bottle Hair. “Those nightmare bugs will still be nightmare bugs after Borgie gobbles them. We won’t change that at all. But they won’t be munching the princess’s dreams anymore, will they?”

“They might not have much left to munch,” Quentin despaired. “What if Borg doesn’t wake up in time?”

“That gorgon portrait is more powerful than Dr. Bluster’s Patented Sleep Preparation of Most Sleepful Sleep,” Ollie agreed. “Borg might nap for hours!”

“But we still have a drop of Comacure!” Gus announced, examining the smithereens upon the pillow. One sunny bead of potion glimmered in the crook of a glass shard. “Would this be enough?”

“As we told you, we brew first-rate goop!” Tall One replied indignantly. “That Comacure is potent! There were hundreds of doses in that vial. If there’s even an itty-bitty bit left, it should do the trick. You just have to dribble it in Borg’s eye.”

With utmost caution, Anastasia picked up the bottle fragment and carried it to Borg. Penny gently nudged the dreamdoodle’s fuzzy eyelid, revealing a damp white curve, and Anastasia tilted the piece of glass. The sunshiny droplet fell. Sploosh!

Borg stretched his nose and blinked.

“Borgie-pie!” cried Spectacles. “Did you have a nice nappikins?”

Borg yawned. Then he jumped to his feet and pranced over to Anastasia, his tail wagging hello.

“He’s happy to see you!” said Ollie.

“Borgie,” crooned Tall One, “we have some delicious dream bugs for you to munch! Where’s the dream? Where’s the dream? Get the dream, Borgie!”

Borgie capered in a circle, pressing his snoot to the pine-needled ground and making excited kazoo-like noises.

“He’s got the scent!” Baldwin said.

Borgie followed his nose to Saskia. Sniff! Sniff! He snuffed her hair and then applied his wonderful whiffer to her ear. Sniiiiiiiiifffff!

“Hear that? He’s getting the nightmare bugs out!” said Bottle Hair.

After a minute of delighted snuffling, Borg gave Saskia’s cheek a long-tongued lick and then bounded back to his mistresses.

“Good boy! Good Borgie!”

“Now those naughty nightmare bugs are in his tummy,” said Tall One.

“And when he poops them out,” said Spectacles, “we’ll have some magical scat for our brew!”

“That’s disgusting!” Ollie said.

“Not at all, Ollie!” Penny declared. “Why, you can learn marvelous things from—”

“Penny.” Baldwin shook his head. “Now is not the time.”

“Saskia’s waking up!” said Quentin.

The princess’s eyelashes fluttered and parted. Her glassy gaze swiveled around the cave, taking in the hags and Borgie and finally settling on Anastasia. “You,” she croaked. “I thought I smelled rotten eggs.”

“Saskia! You’re all right!” Penny said.

“And just as rude as ever!” Baldwin added.

“She’s probably in shock.” Wiggy rocked Saskia. “How do you feel, my dear?”

“I’m so cold.” Saskia trembled and pressed her forehead to Wiggy’s lace collar. “Oh, I had such awful dreams….”

“She needs rest,” Wiggy said. “Rest and perhaps a nice hot bath, Saskia? Tea? Baldwin, will you take her to Ludowiga? You’ll have to explain what happened. She’ll be most distraught.”

“All’s well that ends well,” Baldwin philosophized. He pulled Saskia from the queen’s embrace and swung her over his shoulder. “Upsy-daisy!”

“Careful, you galoot!” Saskia moaned. “I got this dress in Paris!”

“And, Penelope,” Wiggy continued, “please show Anastasia’s friends to the ballroom. I shall have a word with the Wish Hags, and then, I think, with Anastasia. Anastasia, you’ll wait for me in my chamber.”