Another Whole Nother Story Read online

  I learned rather quickly that hunting for buried treasure can be quite dangerous because you can actually die of boredom. After four hours in the blazing sun, everything I had dug up included six nails, eleven bottle caps, and a skeleton holding a metal detector. I would thereby advise you that a pirate’s life is not all it’s cracked up to be and, though dressing as one for trick-or-treat may be fun, entering into an agreement with one could be deadly.

  Chapter 10

  As his crewmen counted their winnings while swilling celebratory tankards of ale, the slow-witted Mailman sat at the table probing his hideous head and face, searching for any remaining spot with skin loose enough to pierce so he might properly display his latest trophy. He found no vacancy and turned his attention elsewhere, finally settling on his right elbow, which was currently ring free. “Right ’ere,” he said, stretching out the skin as far as it would go.

  To his left sat his loyal first mate, Shifty, holding a needle over the dancing flame of a candle. Though the Mailman had been pierced on hundreds of occasions, it still hurt like the dickens every time that needle poked through his skin. He winced in advance, preparing for the sting as Shifty placed the needle against his elbow and, with a pop, drove it through. The Mailman let out a hiss, then quickly inserted his newly acquired earring into the freshly made hole.

  “Well, mates?” he said, standing and exhibiting his latest disfigurement for all to see. “ ’Ow do I look?”

  “Like a big ugly tambourine with legs,” came a voice from behind him. The Mailman’s soulless eyes narrowed. He turned, curious to see who had the guts to throw such an insult his way. He was surprised to find a familiar face looming above him. It was Captain Jibby, his big white smile framed by his red shrubby beard.

  “Well, what ’ave we ’ere?” said the Mailman with a smile of his own as he turned to face Jibby and his crew. It was not necessarily a friendly smile, though not an unfriendly one either. “If it ain’t Gentleman Jibby Lodbrok,” he said, his face jingling not at all unlike a tambourine. The Mailman’s crew—Shifty, Flaky, Shady, Scurvy, Sketchy, Smarmy, and Doc—did likewise, taking up a position behind their captain in a shifty, flaky, shady show of unity.

  “It’s been a long time, jingle face,” said Jibby.

  “Indeed it ’as, you old rust bucket,” the Mailman agreed. “No ’ard feelings, I trust. That bit of nastiness back in Denmark was all business, you know. Nothing personal.”

  “Most men who steal from me don’t live to tell about it,” said Jibby.

  “I ain’t most men,” said the Mailman with a short burst of laughter. While most people’s laughs tend to fade away gradually, the Mailman could go instantly from snicker to sneer, which could make things very awkward in a hurry, especially if you were caught still laughing after he had stopped. He sized up Jibby’s crew and was shocked at how haggard they looked. He had no way of knowing that Jibby and his crew had spent the last eight years in the future working as a traveling circus sideshow, and thus were all eight years older than the last time he saw them—only three months before off the coast of Denmark.

  “Blimey, lad,” he said when his eyes landed upon Jake. “What the devil ’appened to you, Four-Eyed Jake?”

  “Uh … it’s Three-Eyed Jake now, I’m afraid,” said Jake. “Little sword-swallowing accident. Missed my mouth and, well, you get the picture.”

  The Mailman did get the picture and shuddered, causing his face to jingle like wind chimes. “You look ’orrible. In fact, you all look awful. Like death warmed over, ya do. All but the beautiful Juanita, that is,” he said with a leer.

  Juanita stared at the Mailman and uttered something unsavory in Spanish. Jibby draped his arm protectively across her shoulders and the Mailman gasped at the sight of Jibby’s severed right hand.

  “Ahh,” said the Mailman, making no effort to hide his repulsion. “Your ’and. Where the devil is your ’and?”

  “Not sure where it is, to be honest,” said Jibby. “Perhaps the tiger knows.”

  “Your ’and was eaten by a tiger?”

  “Actually, I believe he spat it out. Too tough for him, I imagine.”

  “Or too sour,” countered the Mailman with another quick laugh that he shut off like a kinked garden hose. “So tell me, Jibby old boy, what brings a man of such fine breedin’ into a place like this?”

  “Heard you were here,” said Jibby. “Thought you might be interested in a little wager.”

  The Mailman laughed and his greasy-looking crew laughed with him at the absurdity of such a statement. To suggest that the Mailman might be interested in gambling would be similar to asking a mouse if it might be interested in a bite of your cheese sandwich. Again the Mailman’s laugh stopped abruptly, like a test car hitting a wall at forty miles per hour. “You know me too well, Jibby,” he said. “I’d welcome the chance to take your money. That and those lovely earrings on your lovely wife’s lovely little ears. I’ve got just the place for them.”

  “No,” said Jibby. “I’m thinking of a much bigger wager, actually.”

  “Oh?” said the Mailman.

  “You against Sammy here. My ship against yours.”

  The Mailman looked a bit thrown. “You mean to say you would risk losing the Bella Juanita? She’s your pride and joy.”

  “I don’t plan on losing,” said Jibby.

  “They never do,” said the Mailman, laughing for a full three seconds. “And if you win, what will you do with two ships?”

  “By the looks of yours, I’d have little choice but to sell it for firewood.”

  The Mailman’s eyes narrowed once more, becoming mere slits on his jingly face. “Be careful there, matey,” he sneered. “It’s one thing to insult the Mailman and quite another to speak poorly of ’is ship.”

  “Fine,” said Jibby. “I shall reserve my comments for after she becomes mine.”

  “We’ll see about that,” said the Mailman. “Very well, then. Your ship against mine. When do we start?”

  “We’re ready whenever you are,” said Jibby. “Right, Sammy?”

  Sammy nodded confidently. He loosened up by shrugging his shoulders and rolling his head from side to side. As the two men were about to take a seat at the table, Shifty cleared his throat and said, “Permission to speak freely, sir.”

  “Go ahead,” said the Mailman impatiently. Shifty leaned in and whispered something in the Mailman’s ear.

  “I don’t follow you,” said the Mailman. Shifty leaned in and delivered a longer message this time.

  “Oh, riiiiight,” said the Mailman. “Excellent point. Smart one, ’e is.” Shifty’s round, bearded face lit up with pride. “All right then, lads. Let the contest begin. Me against your boy Sammy. The Bella Juanita against the Sea Urchin. A balancin’ contest. ’E who can stand on one foot the longest wins.” The Mailman did a couple of deep knee bends to get the blood flowing.

  “Balancing contest?” said Jibby.

  “That tiger didn’t bite off your ears too, did ’e?”

  “No, it’s just that … I assumed it would be arm wrestling.”

  “Not sure if you had occasion to notice,” said the Mailman, “but I just finished arm wrestlin’ a man ten times me size. Needless to say, me arm’s a bit spent, as you might imagine. Besides, I’m not stupid enough to go up against someone with the strength of, uh …” He turned to Shifty. “What was it again?”

  “Two and a half men.”

  “Right. Two and a half men. No, I’m afraid it’ll ’ave to be balancin’.”

  Jibby turned to Sammy. “How are you with balancing on one foot?”

  Sammy shrugged. “Not bad, I suppose.”

  “Not bad? What do you mean by not bad?”

  “Well, I mean not very good.”

  Jibby felt a tug at his sleeve. It was Dizzy, volunteering for duty. Of course, thought Jibby. Dizzy, with his specially made earmuffs, was the perfect candidate for the job.

  “Dizzy is our man in this fight. The most stable fellow
on one leg.” He gave Dizzy an encouraging pat on the shoulder and then, with a smile and a wink, leaned in and whispered, “If you lose, I’ll break both your legs.”

  Word of the contest spread quickly among the crowd and bets were laid as the Mailman’s crew moved tables and chairs to make room for the upcoming battle of the well balanced. Dizzy removed his shoes. He always had better equilibrium without them.

  Shifty laid down the ground rules and the two balancers faced each other. “Ready, Dizzy boy?” asked the Mailman. Dizzy took a deep breath and nodded confidently. “Really? ’Cuz you don’t look so good. A little shaky. Last chance to back out.”

  “I’m fine,” said Dizzy.

  “All right then. On the count of three.”

  Shifty counted to three and Dizzy lifted his right foot off the ground while the Mailman went with the left. Always looking for an edge, the Mailman made sure he was farthest from the door to avoid even the slightest draft. To further increase his advantage, his men stood behind him, slowly swaying from side to side in hopes of confusing Dizzy’s perspective. Still, the Mailman had no idea that Dizzy had his own edge. Those silly-looking earmuffs, designed by the greatest scientist of all time, would keep Dizzy in perfect balance for as long as he needed. Or at least he hoped they would, for if not, there would be trouble. Big trouble.

  Chapter 11

  This is as far as I go,” said Big, standing at the outskirts of town with her two squabbling clients. “You will find the ordinary on this very road on the right-hand side.”

  “Ordinary?” said Gateman.

  “It’s like a hotel,” said Professor Boxley, who had done some research before departing for the seventeenth century.

  “Excellent,” said Gateman, rubbing his hands together excitedly. “I can’t wait to order some room service. A massage would be nice, too.”

  “I said it’s like a hotel,” said the professor. “It’s not a hotel. It’s an ordinary. Remember, this is 1668.”

  What an odd thing to say, thought Big. To remind someone what year it was.

  “I’m sure they must have an extraordinary,” said Gateman. “Something with a nice bar and a pool? After all, this seems like a lively little town.”

  Gateman was right. From where they stood, it did seem like a lively town, with all the people running back and forth and all the shouting. But Big knew this was not a lively town. Something was going on. Something unusual.

  “Well, thank you for your help, young lady,” said the professor. “Best of luck to you. We’ll be sure to say hi to Ethan Cheeseman for you.”

  Big forced the slightest of smiles but kept her eyes down the road on the quiet town that was, for some reason, no longer quiet. As her customers continued on, Big stood and listened to what sounded to her like an angry mob.

  If there is one good thing about an angry mob, it’s that they are often so focused on being angry and mobbish that they sometimes miss little things. Things like a horse-drawn cart being driven by the very person who has made them so angry and mobbish in the first place.

  With his three children secreted beneath a pile of moist hay, Mr. Cheeseman, disguised with a straw hat and a reddish beard, guided the cart from the barn toward the main drag, which by now was teeming with people carrying torches, pitchforks, and rakes, and one very confused man who apparently had mistaken the mob for a parade and was marching around with a Swedish flag.

  As the cart made its way toward the center of town, never before had the Cheeseman children had such fond recollections of their family station wagon. It may have been old and beat-up, but at least it had padded seats, shock absorbers, and did not smell of wet hay.

  In addition to being very hard on one’s backside, the bumpy ride also had the undesirable effect of loosening the bubble gum’s grip on Mr. Cheeseman’s face. The left side began to peel away and he quickly pressed it back on just as two men holding long wooden clubs ran by.

  Beneath the hay, the children could see nothing but they could hear a great deal, even over the din of the iron-rimmed wheels grinding along the cobblestone street. They could hear footsteps rushing in all directions and Jacques Bon Mot barking out orders in the distance from atop his mighty steed. They could hear shouting and a man loudly singing patriotic songs in Swedish. They could hear female voices just clear enough to make out the words appalling and outrageous as the two plump women walked straight toward the cart, each carrying a long-handled sharp object equally suited to tilling the earth or bludgeoning witches. Mr. Cheeseman tensed at the sight of them.

  As world-class busybodies, the women knew everyone in town, and this red-bearded farmer with his hand pressed to the left side of his face was not at all familiar to them. They sized up Mr. Cheeseman carefully as he passed. He held his breath and hoped the women scrutinized everyone in such a way. Once the cart had gone by, Mr. Cheeseman let out a huge sigh of relief. That sense of relief lasted all of about two seconds because just then he was reminded that he knew nothing about hooking up a horse to a seventeenth-century wooden cart. With a heart-sinking thud, the cart’s sidebars fell to the ground. The horse kept moving. The cart did not.

  “Why are we stopping?” whispered Teddy.

  “Shh,” said Chip.

  The sudden quiet caught the ears of Appalling and Outrageous. They turned and looked at each other, then walked back to the motionless cart. “Pardon me, good sir,” said Appalling, “but it doth appear that your horse is leaving you behind.”

  “Yes, it … doth appear that way, dothn’t it?” said Mr. Cheeseman with a chuckle. He could feel the right side of the beard start to loosen and he quickly slapped his other hand to his face.

  “Is there something the matter with your face?” asked Outrageous.

  “Huh? Oh, yes. Toothache. Two. Two toothaches. One on each side. On my way to Boston to see the dentist. I’m … paying him in hay.”

  “I see. Perhaps you should fetch your beast,” said Appalling, “lest he find himself taken captive by the witches for use in their unholy rituals.”

  “Witches?” said Mr. Cheeseman as if he had never heard the word before.

  “Surely you’ve been told,” said Outrageous, adjusting her glasses to get a clearer look at Mr. Cheeseman. “Our town has been besieged by them. You shouldn’t be traveling without something with which to defend yourself.” Then, without warning, she tossed her gardening implement to Ethan. Instinctively, he reached out with both hands and caught it. Without support, the beard slowly peeled away from his face on both sides.

  The women gasped. “It’s him!” cried Outrageous. “The leader of the witches!”

  “Outrageous!” said Appalling.

  “Appalling!” said Outrageous.

  “Run, kids!” said Mr. Cheeseman.

  The children jumped to their feet, throwing the damp hay aside, large chunks of it smacking Appalling and Outrageous in their faces, leaving them even more appalled and outraged than before. While Penny and Pinky hopped out of the cart, Chip lowered Teddy to the ground and then jumped out himself. Mr. Cheeseman peeled the sagging beard from his chin and tossed it aside. It soared through the air and landed, quite unintentionally, right on Appalling’s well-groomed hair, gum side down. Perhaps, then, everything does happen for a reason.

  Appalling screamed and fussed and generally ran around in panicky circles, trying to pull the sticky bubble gum from her hair. The accused witches took off on foot, quickly passing the old horse, still loping along and completely unaware that the wagon had come unhitched. As they ran by he gave them a look that seemed to say, “Hey, I know those guys.”

  “Ahhh, my hair!” cried Appalling. “The witches have cursed me! Oh, what a world!”

  Jacques Bon Mot heard the cry as he emerged from the cornfield. Looking toward the main drag he saw the four dangerous witches; their hairless, man-eating pet wolf; and their pink-eyed, bilingual sock puppet running in the direction of the bridge out of town … and directly toward Gateman Nametag and Professor Acorn Boxley a
s the two men strolled into town, looking for the ordinary. Mr. Cheeseman and his children did not recognize Gateman as the evil Mr. 5, thanks to his toupee, goatee, and fifteen years of aging. In fact, they didn’t even bother to look at him as they practically flew by.

  Professor Boxley stopped and whirled around. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Agreed,” said Gateman. “That man should learn to control his children.”

  “No,” said the professor. He pulled the magazine from his pocket and checked the photo on the cover. “That was him. That was Ethan Cheeseman. Come on, let’s go.” The professor took off down the road after the Cheeseman clan and Gateman followed, the thought of imminent revenge bringing a sudden ear-to-ear grin to his hollow cheeks.

  Fueled by fear and adrenaline, the Cheesemans ran until the cobblestone turned to dirt and angled toward the bridge. If they could just get to the river they might have a chance, thought Mr. Cheeseman. A natural athlete, Chip was the fastest and had gained a considerable lead when he saw, standing on the path just up ahead, a familiar silhouette. He would have been overjoyed to see Big if he had not been preoccupied at the moment with not being killed.

  “Chip,” she said. “What’s wrong? What’s happening?”

  “They think we’re witches,” said Chip breathlessly.

  “Who thinks you’re witches?”

  “Everybody. The whole town.”

  “So that accounts for the commotion,” she said. “We’ve got to get you out of here. It will not go well for you if they catch you.” Mr. Cheeseman, Penny, and Teddy caught up. Pinky greeted Digs with a friendly nudge, then turned and growled. Running toward them were Professor Boxley and Gateman Nametag and, farther down the road, Jacques Bon Mot and his massive horse, galloping at full speed.

  “We’ll never make it,” said Mr. Cheeseman.

  “You go ahead,” said Big. “Continue over the bridge and down along the river to Crazy Nellie’s shack. I’ll catch up to you.”

  “What are you going to do?” said Chip.