The Secret of Zoone Page 19

  The inside of the tent was much bigger than seemed possible from the outside, though such things were beginning to surprise Ozzie less and less. Looking about, he could see rows of shelves, all stacked and stuffed with strange bottles and containers. Handwritten labels told of grim contents: venom from a Snardassian ice snake, scales from an Aquarian mermaid, ash from the nest of a Morindian fire dragon. As they moved farther inside, Ozzie noticed skulls peering out from the darker corners of the tent, while strings of fangs hung from the ceiling. A glass counter displayed an assortment of bizarre skeletons with wings, tails, and horns. Ozzie took it all in with a slightly creepy-crawly feeling and tried not to breathe too deeply, since the tent was filled with a perplexing concoction of odors.

  Tug had noticed this, too. “Just to tell you, it smells funny in here,” the skyger declared, wrinkling his large blue snout.

  A small hunched man with pointed ears and a tight-fitting skullcap scuttled over to them. “Welcome to Hexter’s Emporium of Magic,” he greeted them. “Hexter himself at your service. Poisons, pow—”

  “Yes, we know,” Fidget interrupted. “We read the sign. Look, what I need is something to . . . um, get rid of a curse.”

  “Well, that—ahem—depends on the curse,” Hexter said, twiddling his fingers in much the same way a spider uses its legs to weave a web.

  Fidget grimaced. She looked over her shoulder to check if anyone else was about, then quickly explained her predicament.

  “Ah, well, yes—certainly!” Hexter said. “Old Hexter’s got all sorts of—ahem—charms for such an ailment.” He slipped like a shadow amid his wares and began pulling out bottles, vials, and canisters. “You could use wool from an Elandorian yak. They went extinct a thousand years ago, you know. Or perhaps this . . . a grunt from a Gallambrian hippopotamus. Or . . . perhaps the wish of an Ombrian widow made on her four hundred and thirty-third birthday.”

  “It’s all really expensive,” Fidget bemoaned as she contemplated the tags. She cast a woeful look at Ozzie. “Do you think Lady Zoone will give me an advance on my wages?”

  “Oh!” Hexter exclaimed, snatching back the bottle that contained the Ombrian’s wish. “You work for her ladyship, do you? Well—ahem—maybe none of these are quite right for you. I mean—ahem—that’s a malignant curse you have, my dear. You need—ahem—proper wizardin’ to help you with that.”

  “What about my wings?” Tug wondered.

  “No, no, no!” Hexter fussed, now escorting them toward the doorway. “I don’t have anything for you lot. I should have mentioned before, no—ahem—pets allowed in the shop.”

  “He’s not a pet,” Ozzie argued.

  It was at that very moment that Tug sneezed, which sent the nearest display of magical ingredients toppling to the ground.

  “Out!” Hexter screamed. “Out, out, OUT!”

  “How do you like that?” Fidget grumbled as they were unceremoniously shoved back into the bustling aisle of the market.

  “I guess we’ll have to watch Tug’s tail and his nose,” Ozzie said. “But, to tell you the truth, I think old Hexter’s a fraud.”

  “Not only that,” Tug added innocently, “his shop is a wreck.”

  24

  The Twitch of a Tail

  “Well,” Fidget announced. “There’s only one thing to do now: eat.”

  “Finally,” Tug purred. “Just to tell you, I smell something preposasterous.”

  “I don’t think you’re using that word quite right,” Ozzie told the skyger.

  A few moments later, Ozzie changed his mind. Tug had used the word correctly. That’s because what the skyger had smelled turned out to be snickerpops—which, as far as Ozzie could tell, were like sticks of cotton candy that glowed brightly from the center and morphed in shape and size as you tried to eat them. Ozzie wasn’t sure why the snickerpops glowed—he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He enjoyed the first few bites well enough, but then the fuzzy candy began to perform a dance on his tongue—and not the slow, relaxing kind. It was a wild type of dance, like a tango. Or the kind Ozzie imagined cannibals would do around a fire.

  “Let’s go get something else,” Tug purred after only a few minutes. He had already eaten five snickerpops, but Ozzie knew that was hardly enough to put a dent in his appetite.

  “I think I just need to sit here a moment,” Ozzie said queasily. The party on his tongue had made a venue change to his stomach.

  “Come on, Tug,” Fidget said, standing up and grabbing hold of his tail. “I’ll treat you to something. You wanted to try one of the pies from Madame Switch’s pastry stall, right? We’ll meet up with you in a bit, Oz.”

  The purple-haired girl and the skyger ambled back into the market, and Ozzie was left with a strange, unfamiliar feeling. It wasn’t just the rumbling in his stomach. It was something else, something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Then, just before disappearing into the crowd, Fidget turned and waved at Ozzie. And it struck him.

  This is what it feels like to be in the right place, Ozzie realized.

  Yes, he wanted to get the door to Eridea open, and yes, he wanted to see Aunt Temperance—but he didn’t want to leave Zoone. Other than his aunt, he couldn’t think of any reason to go back. His parents were always gone. And school? Torturous. Here in Zoone, it was a different story. Sure, he had screwed up a few times, but he’d also found a job and a purpose. More important, he had found friends. It was like he was new and improved, as if Zoone was somehow bringing out the best in him.

  “Enjoying yourself, Eridean boy?”

  Ozzie turned with a start to see Master Nymm staring down at him with his hawkish eyes. Ozzie had been so lost in his own thoughts that he hadn’t even noticed the tall and imposing leader of the council come up alongside him.

  “Doing a little wizard-watching, perhaps?” Nymm added after Ozzie didn’t answer immediately. “I suspect your perishing world offers nothing quite like the Magic-Makers’ Market.”

  “No, sir,” Ozzie ventured. He wondered if Nymm had come to tell him that he could speak at the convention. Or maybe, Ozzie thought, he’s coming to tell me that he won’t allow it, and then rub it in my face. But he tried to think of the potential positives instead, like Salamanda had suggested.

  Nymm took a seat alongside Ozzie on the bench, stared out at the market, and gave a little snort. “Truth be told, I’m not a fan of this spectacle,” the wizard confessed. “If you ask me, it’s all just a distraction from what’s really important. Magic isn’t about the stuff on your shelf. It’s about the stuff in here.”

  As he spoke this last sentence, he flicked his staff to tap Ozzie right between the eyes. Ozzie shuddered, fully expecting to turn into a toad. After a moment, when he realized he was still in Ozzie form, he mustered the courage to ask, “Are you saying that potions and spells don’t really work?” He thought about Mr. Plank’s grease to repair magical items of wood; maybe it was a good thing that he hadn’t been able to afford it.

  “I certainly wouldn’t count on any of the feeble concoctions these charlatans are trying to peddle,” Nymm said, gesturing at the marketplace before them. “Real magic isn’t some solution you simply buy in a bottle. It’s something you brew yourself—that is, if you understand the true nature of magic. It’s a way of thinking. A person without magic is a person without connection. Without imagination. Without wisdom.” After a pause, he added, “What about you, Eridean boy? Do you possess these things?”

  “I . . . I don’t know,” Ozzie admitted. A minute ago, he’d been thinking he was new and improved. But hearing Nymm’s words made him reconsider that idea. “To be honest, I’m not even sure I know myself anymore.”

  “Hmm,” Nymm muttered pensively. “Perhaps you are growing.”

  “Growing up?” Ozzie asked.

  Nymm grunted. “Anyone can grow up. Growing is something else altogether. And it’s something I wouldn’t expect of someone from your world.” He said this last part, the “your world” part, as if he
had suddenly swallowed something incredibly sour.

  “Because you don’t like my world,” Ozzie dared to say. Up to this point of the conversation, Nymm hadn’t been quite as hard on him, but now it looked like he was returning to his old tricks. You can only keep the lid on the pot so long, Ozzie thought, which was something Aunt Temperance liked to say.

  “Worlds are the same as people,” Nymm replied brusquely. “If they don’t use their magic, they shrivel up and die.”

  “Is that why you won’t fix the door?” Ozzie persisted.

  Nymm’s brow furled. “The absolute truth is that I never wish to see a door shut. A door closed is a smaller multiverse for us all. But a dying world is a dangerous thing. It tends to become . . . unpredictable, vicious even. You saw this firsthand during your ill-advised trip to Glibbersaug.” Nymm paused, a distant look in his solemn eyes. “And there are other factors to be considered, ones I’m afraid you can’t quite fathom.”

  It was the type of remark that Ozzie was used to from the prickly wizard. And normally it would have frustrated him. But he had this feeling there was something heavy weighing on the wizard, so he said, “Look, just so you know, I wouldn’t do anything—ever—to jeopardize the safety of Zoone.”

  Nymm’s eyes softened; for once he didn’t look quite so much like a bird of prey. “I believe you,” he said after a moment. “Still, this is a matter for the council. It’s hardly a topic of conversation between a boy and a wizard on a moonlit night.”

  Ozzie couldn’t help but to think it was the perfect type of conversation to occur between a boy and a wizard on a moonlit night. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Do you mean . . .”

  Nymm offered Ozzie what looked like a smile. Ozzie wasn’t entirely sure, because while the wizard’s eyes and lips seemed friendly enough, the eyebrows were doing their own thing, as if being pleasant was a language they were still learning how to speak.

  “Tell me, Ozzie,” Nymm said, “can you manage to stay up with the moon tonight?”

  Ozzie nodded eagerly.

  “Very well then,” Nymm said. “Remain here, enjoy the market, and I will send Salamanda to fetch you at the appropriate hour. When you come before the council, you need not waste any time speaking of your life in Eridea or what happened while getting here—the council has already been apprised of those details. Just concentrate on telling them what you’ve learned since coming to Zoone. What they want to learn about is your character.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ozzie declared. “And then they will open the door?”

  “Let’s just take it one step at a time,” Nymm answered. “You’ve been very patient so far. I ask you to remain so just a little longer.”

  The wizard took his leave, leaving Ozzie to feel as light as a snickerpop. Finally! The door was going to be opened now—Ozzie was sure of it. He was going to see Aunt Temperance again! Maybe he could even convince her to come to Zoone. And it was all because he had finally succeeded in doing exactly what Lady Zoone had asked of him: He had made a good impression on Nymm.

  I am new and improved, Ozzie thought.

  Even his stomach was feeling better. So, with his heart swelling with optimism, Ozzie rose from the bench and set off to find Tug and Fidget.

  He saw them standing near Madame Switch’s pastry stall, happily munching another round of treats. Filled with the urge to tell them his good news, he tore off through the crowd—and tripped on an untied shoelace. He bowled right into an unsuspecting woman who was paying for a pie at Madame Switch’s counter. Ozzie ended up on the ground; the pie ended up on the woman’s head.

  “What in the worlds?!” she screeched, whirling around.

  Even though she was dripping with green goop, Ozzie immediately recognized her. It was Miss Lizard, the Ophidian woman he had helped on his very first porter’s shift!

  “Oh, great,” Ozzie muttered beneath his breath.

  “Who’s going to pay for my cleaning bill?” Miss Lizard moaned. “I demand restitution for damages to my person and property.”

  “Here, hold this,” Fidget told Ozzie as she passed Tug’s tail to him. Then she marched right up to Miss Lizard and flicked a piece of crust from her shoulder. “It’s just pie goop,” Fidget said boldly.

  A strange look came over Miss Lizard’s face. Ozzie knew she wasn’t the type of person to handle this kind of situation very well. Actually, he wasn’t sure if there was a situation in the entire multiverse that she could handle calmly. Her reptilian eyes narrowed and her tongue flickered out, making her look even more like a lizard than usual.

  “Do you dare to touch me, girl?” the Ophidian woman snarled venomously. “Then we shall call it slither for slather!” She snatched another pie from the counter and hurled it right at Fidget’s face.

  Fidget ducked. The pie flew over her head and exploded on the ground behind her, splattering all over a family of grolls. Ozzie’s stomach lurched as he surveyed the scene. What was left of the pie’s filling was beginning to (ugh!) crawl away.

  “How dare you?” the mother groll growled. She had been licking what looked like a candied crab on a stick and now she lobbed it at Miss Lizard. It hit her on the cheek and stuck there, dangling awkwardly.

  “THAT’S IT!” Miss Lizard screeched. She snatched another pie from the counter of the pastry shop and hurled it at the grolls.

  “Stop!” Madame Switch moaned. “Oh, my beautiful baking! Please stop!”

  It might have been easier to put a lid on a volcano. Ozzie had spent enough time in school cafeterias to know how these things went. There was nothing quite so contagious as a food fight—except, it seemed, a magical one. The entire aisle was instantly swept up in the chaos as people scrambled for ammunition. Pies and pastries were soon flying in every direction, filling the air with wallops and whooshes, splats and smacks.

  “We’ve got to get out of here!” Ozzie told his friends. He turned to flee—only to be clobbered in the back of the head by a large syrupy pie.

  “Hey!” Fidget roared, whirling around. A large canister had tumbled off one of Madame Switch’s shelves; Fidget picked it up and cracked open the lid. “Aha!” she cried.

  “Cookies?” Ozzie asked dubiously. He was desperately hoping that the filling dripping down the back of his neck was of the fruit variety, as opposed to the worm-intestine kind.

  “You see cookies,” Fidget said. “I see ammunition.”

  She began hurling cookies into the crowd like they were Frisbees. Ozzie picked up a few and began firing them, too. None of their missiles hit the intended targets—mostly because the cookies suddenly sprouted wings and fluttered off in different directions.

  “Ooh, skrat cookies,” Tug said, smacking his giant lips. “They’re delicious.”

  This must be a dream come true for Tug, Ozzie thought; food was literally flying through the air. Then, as Ozzie dodged the next oncoming pie, Tug opened his enormous mouth and swallowed the pastry whole. His fur shimmered to a satisfied sapphire.

  “Ugh,” Ozzie groaned. “I hope that one wasn’t filled with snake tongues.”

  Tug looked at Ozzie and gave him the skyger equivalent of a shrug. Unfortunately, that happened to be a brisk twitch of his tail. During all the excitement, Ozzie had forgotten to watch it. Forgotten to hold it. Forgotten to protect the rest of the multiverse from it.

  And that’s when things took a turn for the worse.

  25

  A Wizard’s Wrath

  If there was one thing that Ozzie had learned since meeting Tug, it was that a twitch of his tail could be dangerous. Even a regular everyday sort of swish was likely to win an argument with your feet. But this particular twitch had been fueled all night by snickerpops, witchy pies, and who-knew-what-else—which meant it had extra wallop.

  In fact, Tug’s tail packed so much wallop that it knocked over the nearest booth, the one selling magical cosmetics. The booth creaked. It seemed to moan. Then it began to topple.

  “You were supposed to be holding his tail!” Fid
get cried.

  It was a little late for holding—or scolding—now. Ozzie watched in astonishment as the cosmetics booth slammed right into the next stall in the aisle, causing it to collapse, too. On it went, one booth toppling into another, like a series of dominoes.

  Except these dominoes were full of magic. Some of them began to explode like fireworks, filling the market with hissing and fizzing and the odd boom! The situation began to spiral out of control because now the calamity wasn’t just confined to the aisle where Miss Swift’s stall was located—it spread to the entire market. Soon, people weren’t just throwing food. They were attacking with anything and everything they could get their hands on. Magical food was one thing. Potions, powders, and other wizardly wares ratcheted up the situation to a whole other level—a dangerous level.

  “We really have to get out of here!” Ozzie screamed as a bottle containing a large blinking eyeball soared past his head.

  He darted through the bedlam, swerving this way and that, scrambling over fallen booths and the shattered remains of magical merchandise. He leaped over an open spell book that was singing some sort of recipe and dodged another that was fluttering in the air. A black crocodile that must have escaped from some shop selling wizardly pets snapped at him along the way, but Ozzie didn’t stop until he reached the wall of the terrace.

  “We’re out of the worst of it now,” he panted, but when he turned back only Tug was there. “Where did Fidget go?” he asked.

  “Maybe she wanted to keep fighting,” Tug suggested. “Just to tell you, I think she likes fighting.”

  Ozzie desperately scanned the crowd for some sign of the princess. It didn’t take long to spot her inappropriately purple hair amid the chaos. She was right in the middle of the action, fighting hand to hand with someone.

  A very particular someone, Ozzie realized with a groan.

  “Oh, she’s found Salamanda,” Tug remarked.

  Ozzie raced back into the pandemonium. “Stop it!” he cried as he came upon the two girls, Tug fast on his heels. Salamanda had pushed Fidget to the ground and was now looming over her with a large gooey pie at the ready.