Billy: Messenger of Powers (44 page)

“Does Eva Black know how to get here? Or Wolfen?” he asked.

“That harpy?” said Rumpelstiltskin with a snarl. He shook both his canes this time, clearly upset by the very mention of Mrs. Black’s name. “She doesn’t care about menial things like cleaning. Never mind that without me and my friends, the whole of Powers Island would look like the city dump in Newark, New Jersey. Never mind that without us, we’d be buried in used cocoa mugs and hot dog wrappers up to our—”

“And what about Wolfen?” Billy interrupted, determined to keep this conversation on track.

“Wolfen?” asked the man, looking confused. “Isn’t he dead already?”

“No!” said Billy. “Don’t you know anything about what’s going on on Powers Island? With the Darksiders? With…,” he slowed, then in a softer voice, said, “With your wife?”

Rumpelstiltskin’s countenance changed. The tiny old man seemed to shrink in on himself, like a candle flame about to puff out of existence. “My wife,” he said. Then suddenly, as fast as he had wilted, he seemed somehow stronger and taller. “I know she’s been taken captive. And I know that some very bad things are going to happen to her soon, if they haven’t already.” Then he grinned and returned to his demented self once more.

Billy was aghast. “You mean you
know
?” he said, totally shocked. “And you’re not doing anything about it?”

Rumpelstiltskin looked at Billy with rheumy eyes that shone with half-hidden tears. “My boy,” he said. “I can’t do much. I’ve done what I could, just waiting for you.”

“Me?” Billy was now even more confused. “Why me?”

“Because,” said Rumpelstiltskin, his eyes now shining with tears of a different kind, tears of hope and longing, “you are the Messenger. You are the one who is of all Powers. If anyone can save us all, you can.”

“Then help me,” pleaded Billy.

Rumpelstiltskin shook his head. “I can’t leave here,” he said.

“Why?” asked Billy.

The tired and scared-looking old man gazed all around. The work of cleaning went on on all sides, continuous and unwavering as the existence of the sun. “I can’t leave,” he whispered. He looked back at Billy. “Who will watch my babies?” he asked, gesturing at all the Fizzles. Then, in an even more melancholy tone, he said, “Who will do the cleaning?”

Billy wanted to say something else. It was incomprehensible to him that this man was unwilling to leave the Cleaning Room to go after his wife, even if he didn’t remember who she was; to try to save the woman he had married. Billy knew that if his mother was in trouble, his father would move heaven and earth to save her. His father, though often distant, was a peace-loving man, whose job as a paramedic was devoted to saving others. Nonetheless, Billy knew that if his mom was being hurt, those people responsible would have to watch out, because his father would come after them, and would be relentless.

But Billy didn’t say anything else to try and convince Rumpelstiltskin “Terry” Russet to come with him. The man was very sick, it was clear. A sad and broken man who didn’t have the strength to leave his sanctuary. Billy knew he should have felt angry, but all he could muster was pity.

“Is there any way you can help me?” Billy asked. “Anything at all?”

“I don’t know,” said Rumpelstiltskin. “What do you want me to do?”

Billy thought. “I need to get to Dark Island,” he finally said. “That’s where my friends are being held.”

“Well, if that’s the case, I can give you a nice rope to hang yourself with,” said Rumpelstiltskin. “It’d be quicker and less painful than going after the Darksiders in their stronghold.”

“Look,” said Billy, surprised at the strength and determination he heard in his voice. “I’m going to find a way to Dark Isle, with or without your help. So if you’ve got anything to say that might help me, say it now. Because I’m going.”

And he meant it. Even though he didn’t even really know where he was, he
would
find a way. He
would
find Dark Isle. He
would
save his friends. No matter what.

Apparently, Rumpelstiltskin saw something in Billy’s face that made him believe his words. The old man thought for a long while, then finally said, “There may be a way. But,” he added with a grimace, “I don’t think you’ll like it.”

Looking at the expression on Terry’s face, Billy had no doubt that the old man was right. He wasn’t going to like it, whatever “it” was.

But he had no other choice.

CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH

When Billy heard the old man’s idea, his response was short and to the point. “What?!” he screamed. “Are you crazy?”

“Not exactly,” was all Rumpelstiltskin could manage. “At least, I don’t think so. But then,” he added, “I don’t know any crazy people who think they
are
crazy, so me not thinking I’m crazy doesn’t mean that I’m not really crazy, does it?”

Billy tried to follow the convolutions of Rumpelstiltskin’s sentence, got halfway through it, got lost, started over, got lost again, and finally decided to give the whole thing up as a bad job and go back to his original question. “What?” he asked again, though slightly less loudly this time.

“I know it doesn’t sound very nice, but I really think it’s the only way,” said the old man.

Billy didn’t like it. In the whole history of bad ideas, he supposed this had to be near the top.

“Attack a zombie?” Billy asked, hoping without much hope that he had heard the old man incorrectly.

“No, no, not attack a zombie,” said Rumpelstiltskin with an exasperated tone. He looked away from Billy for a moment, yelling, “Hey, don’t put those forks that way! They all have to point east! East, I tell you!” The rock Fizzles he spoke to rapidly began reorganizing a pile of forks that went nearly to the ceiling.

Rumpelstiltskin looked back at Billy. “I never said to attack a zombie. I think doing that would be a terrible idea. Terrible, like the invention of dirt.” The old man shuddered at the mere thought of such stuff. “I said you should just shake hands with one.”

“Okay,” said Billy slowly. “So I just walk up to the nearest zombie that I find, say hi, ask him his name, introduce myself, and shake hands. Maybe ask if we can go to a movie or something, or if he wants to come over to my place to play video games.”

“You have video games at your house?” asked Rumpelstiltskin. “Lucky!”

“No, I don’t have any video games!” yelled Billy. Prince, still curled on his arm, came suddenly awake and hissed at Billy, clearly letting his friend know that he was trying to sleep and would appreciate a bit of quiet. “I don’t have any video games,” Billy continued in a softer voice. “I just—”

“Well, if you don’t have any video games,” interrupted Rumpelstiltskin, “why would you bother asking a zombie to play with you? Besides,” he added with a roll of his eyes, “you’ll be unconscious the second you touch it. Can’t play video games when you’re passed out, can you?” He rolled his eyes again, as though frustrated that he had been put in charge of a kid who clearly had a lower than normal IQ.

“I
know
I’ll be unconscious,” Billy half-snarled. His mother’s words about being respectful to elders kept coming back to him, but somehow he felt it difficult to concentrate on that during any conversations with Rumpelstiltskin. He took a deep breath, composing himself, then continued, speaking slowly and clearly. “Try to understand. I don’t want to be unconscious. I think unconsciousness would not help me much. I think it would mostly leave me helpless. I think that would be bad.”

“I agree with everything you said,” said Rumpelstiltskin. His brow wrinkled. “At least, I think I did. What was the middle part again? Right after you said ‘I.’”

Billy growled, the strange sound coming unbidden from his throat. Rumpelstiltskin looked surprised at the sound. He felt his stomach. “Was that you making that noise, or me?”

Billy let the growl turn into a scream of frustration. “Help me! Please!” he shouted. Then, because he suspected that continuing to talk to Rumpelstiltskin would just result in there being two insane people in here—as opposed to just one—he started to look for a way out of the room. He’d be better off on his own, he decided.

“Whatcha lookin’ for?” asked Rumpelstiltskin.

“A way out,” replied Billy. He started walking in a random direction, trying to move away from Mrs. Russet’s crazy husband. He kept a lookout for a door or an elevator or some other method—magical or otherwise—of exiting this place.

“Wait, wait!” shouted Rumpelstiltskin, hobbling after Billy. “If that’s all you need, I can help you with it, no problem!” Billy waited for a moment, looking at the old man with a combination of exasperation and hope.

Rumpelstiltskin fumbled in the folds of his cloak, almost falling over several times as he did so, his two canes clutched in one of his hands while the other went in and out of huge pockets, searching for something. Finally, he said, “Ah-ha!” and pulled out a sponge.

And then he promptly threw the sponge at Billy.

Billy, stunned, didn’t move a muscle. The sponge bounced off his head, landing on the floor with a wet “splooge” sound. Billy blinked rapidly. He suddenly couldn’t think straight. It felt as though the sponge had been the last overload that finally blew his brain into crackling bits of malfunctioning machinery.

He looked down at the sponge. It seemed to sway back and forth in front of him, whirling around like some kind of insane ballet dancer who had had one too many caffeinated drinks.

Billy blinked and frowned. What had Rumpelstiltskin done to him? The old man came close, and Billy saw with some surprise that the old man now appeared to be much taller, and much younger. Merely old, instead of ancient. Rumpelstiltskin still held his canes, but they were at his sides, as though he didn’t need them.

Rumpelstiltskin leaned down and picked the sponge off the floor, putting it wetly back into his robes. Then, in a strong voice completely unlike what he had sounded like only a moment before, Rumpelstiltskin said, “Sorry about that. But sometimes it takes magic to make us understand things.”

Billy stood transfixed. The man in front of him was still the same Rumpelstiltskin that Billy had been speaking to, but he was at the same time a completely different person. As Billy watched, Rumpelstiltskin’s image seemed to flicker. For a moment, Billy saw him as he had first seen him: bent and feeble. Then he saw the young, strong version of the man for a second. Then he saw both of them at once, like a pair of photographs that had faded into one another.

“We have to move quickly. The spell won’t last long,” said Rumpelstiltskin. “And I can only muster the strength to do this once in a great while.”

“What are you doing, Rumpelstiltskin?” asked Billy.

The old man who was two men at once looked at him sharply. “Call me Terry,” he said. Terry waved one of his canes, and Billy felt something move behind him. He glanced around, and saw that a stone chair had erupted from the ground at his back. Then he felt a strong hand on his chest as Terry pushed him into the chair.

This younger, more focused, and suddenly very intense version of the man Billy had been talking to looked at Billy closely. “I don’t have time to explain,” he said quickly. “But I need you to understand something. My wife believes that you are the Messenger, the one who will destroy the world of the Powers as we know it, and who will herald the return of the White King.” Terry put a hand on Billy’s arm. “I don’t know you well enough to know of myself whether you are the Messenger or not,” continued Terry in that suddenly strong voice. “But I have faith my wife is right. And you have to have faith, too, Billy. Believe in yourself. You have powers that no one save the White King himself can understand. And you have friends, something that no Power can take from you, not even the Power of Death itself.”