Bronze Pen (9781439156650) (10 page)

A
UDREY AND LIZZIE STARED AT EACH
other silently for a few seconds before they both began to talk at once.

“Wha-what happened?” Audrey stammered. “I mean, did you see anything?”

“Where have you been? What do you mean, did I see anything?” Lizzie demanded. “I didn't see anything, except I was over there looking at your dragons, and when I turned around, you were gone. I looked in the closet and under the bed and everywhere, and then I went down the hall and looked in the living room and kitchen. But no one was there, either. Your mother is still out in the garden and your dad is in his room, but you weren't anywhere. But then I came back here—and you're here again.” Putting her hands on her hips, Lizzie demanded, “So tell me. Where did you go?”

For a long moment Audrey stared at Lizzie before she said, “You aren't going to believe me but…”

“Try me,” Lizzie said.

So she did. “I think it's like this,” Audrey said. “Sometimes what I write with this pen comes true, but just kind of. I mean, when I started to use it to work on the story about the girl detective, you know, the part where the animals were talking, it happened. Beowulf—and Sputnik, too—started talking to me. They really did—in actual words.”

“Yeah?” Lizzie looked delighted. “What did old Beowulf say?”

Audrey couldn't help smiling. “Well, when I poked him with my toe, he told me that people shouldn't kick their dogs.”

Lizzie looked at Beowulf. “Right on, monster dog,” she said. “You are
so
right.” Beowulf opened one eye, waved his tail, and went back to sleep.

“But it didn't last long,” Audrey went on. “Only about one day and then it was over. But right after I wrote the dragon book, that same night there was…” She stopped and took a deep breath before she went on. “That night there
was
a dragon under my bed. It's true. I know you don't believe me, but it is true.”

“Yeah?” Lizzie said. Getting down on her hands and knees, she looked under the bed and went on looking for a minute or two. When she finally got up, she was grinning. “Well, there's no dragon there now, but one was there not long ago.”

“What do you mean?” Audrey was amazed. “How can you tell?”

Lizzie shrugged and grinned. “I don't exactly know. Maybe it's the smell.” Her grin widened. “People who know as much about dragons as I do can usually sniff them out.” She paused, looking from Audrey to the notebook on her desk and back again. “So you're telling me that after you wrote that, you…”

Audrey nodded. “It worked,” she said. “It happened. That's where I was just a minute ago.”

When she raised her eyes, she saw that Lizzie was returning her stare and nodding slowly. Nodding and frowning, nodding and frowning. But when she finally began to talk, what she said was, “Yeah, but what I don't understand is why I didn't get to go too.” She pointed to the notebook. “You wrote that we both wanted to go.” She stared and Audrey stared back.

“I know. It doesn't make any sense. But none of it does.”

“Yeah, I know.” Lizzie's frown faded. “But what's wrong with that? Who said everything has to make sense?” She picked up the notebook and, sitting down on the bed, motioned for Audrey to sit beside her. “Now start at the beginning and tell me about how you got this pen and what happened every time you used it. Okay?”

Audrey sat down, but at first she didn't have much to say. “No, I don't think…” A long pause. “Well, maybe I
could just…” Another pause before she said, “It didn't start out with the pen. That happened later.”

“Okay. Okay, what
did
it start with?”

Somehow that was what did it. If Lizzie hadn't asked that exact question at that particular moment, it was quite likely that Audrey never would have gotten around to telling her the whole story. But when Lizzie said “what
did
it start with,” it was just too much of a temptation to say, “A duck. It all started with a white duck.” To say just that much, then sit back and watch the expression on Lizzie's face.

Expressions (plural), actually, because Lizzie's went from amazement to suspicion (as in:
Stop kidding me
) to worry (as in:
Are you feeling all right?
). So Audrey had a lot of explaining to do. Starting with, “It's true.” Then she went on to, “I'm not kidding.” And then, “And I'm not crazy, either.”

Stopping long enough to take a deep breath, she said, “It all began about a month ago when I was sort of hiding out on the highest terrace behind our house, and all of a sudden there was a big white duck, right behind me on the path. It came right up to me until I touched it, and then it went back the way it had come, looking back, as if it had come to get me and was waiting for me to follow it.”

Audrey went on, telling about how she had almost seen, more like sensed, really, someone, perhaps an old woman, in the cave and how she had gone back a second time. And
then after she asked if she could do something to help, like bring food or blankets, the woman gave her the pen. And after that how she had stupidly told her parents about seeing the woman, and they decided she was only a poor old bag lady who needed to be put in an institution and insisted they had to tell the police.

“That was the first time I wrote with the pen,” she told Lizzie. “I wrote that I wanted to warn her about the police. I wanted to send the note or take it to her, but I didn't think I could. But when I looked for it later, it was gone. I thought I must have lost it or else only imagined writing it in the first place. But maybe…” She stopped, considering for the first time another explanation of what might have happened: Maybe because she
had
written that she wanted to
send
a warning, the warning
had
been sent?

“So when the police got there?” Lizzie said, making it into a question.

Audrey nodded. “She wasn't there.”

“Because she got your warning?” Lizzie asked.

“Maybe. Anyway, the police didn't find anything, so my folks thought I'd lied about the woman or else…”

“Or else what?” Lizzie demanded.

“Or else I'd just imagined her.” She shrugged ruefully. “I guess they think that I'm either a liar or a little bit nuts.”

Lizzie only nodded thoughtfully, chewing on her lower lip, so Audrey went on, “And after that there was the time when I'd been writing about talking animals and—”

“Oh, yes.” Lizzie interrupted. “And old Beowulf told you off for kicking him. And Sputnik got his two cents in too.”

“Yes, and then there was the dragon-under-the-bed story.”

“Yeah,” Lizzie said thoughtfully. “I want to hear more about that one. But when you wrote that long thing about the pirate game in the cave with the twins and all that stuff? Did anything happen to you after you wrote that one?”

Audrey thought for a moment, once again wondering how much she should tell. The pirates would be hard to describe and a lot harder for anyone, even Lizzie, to believe. But finally she took a deep breath and began. “Well, I wrote that page last Saturday before I called and asked you if you wanted to come over. My folks had just left to see my dad's doctor when I wrote about the cave and the pirates.” Another long pause. “And then I was there.”

She went on, talking faster and faster, her words stumbling over each other. “Only, I was blindfolded and my hands were tied behind my back so hard that my wrists really hurt, and I could hear voices talking in some foreign language, and I could smell smoke like from a campfire.”

Audrey stopped and stared at Lizzie, and Lizzie stared back. “So that's what happened to your wrists,” she said. “I wondered about that.”

“You wondered about my wrists?” Audrey asked. “But I was wearing a shirt with long sleeves. How did you…”

“I know. On a hot day. I wondered about that. But then once when we were busy talking, you pushed your sleeves up, and I noticed. I was going to ask you what happened to them, but then I decided you'd tell me when you wanted to. So I didn't.”

Lizzie hadn't asked, but she had seen the scratched places. Audrey held out her arms and twisted them from side to side. Even now, a week later, you could see a few reddish spots.

Lizzie was looking too. “Yeah,” she said. “They're a lot better but you can still see it a little. See?” She grabbed Audrey's hand and turned it one way and then the other. “Right there, and there, too. Crummy pirates,” she said.

It wasn't until then, when she said “crummy pirates,” that Audrey really began to realize that Lizzie believed the whole story—pirates and all. And then she said something that made it even more certain. What Lizzie said was, “Okay. So now we need to decide what you could write with the pen so that whatever happens, it happens to both of us. Okay?”

It took Audrey a few seconds to understand that Lizzie actually meant it. But when she did, she felt she had to say, “But we already tried that, didn't we? I mean, when I wrote about both of us going to the cave, I was the only one who went while you were still here looking at the dragons. Maybe it's like the pen will only make things happen to me.”

Lizzie looked disappointed. “You might be right.” She thought for a minute before she went on. “Or else…” Lizzie's grin had a sneaky tilt to it. “Maybe it only works for whoever does the writing. Like,
you
wrote that we wanted to go to the cave, so
you
went. But maybe if
I'd
done the writing—” Lizzie acted it out, pretending to scribble with a nonexistent pen—“then I might have been the one to go. What do you think?”

For some reason Audrey had her doubts, but what she said was, “I guess that might be it. You could try it and see what happens.”

“All
right
!” Lizzie said. Taking the notebook with her, she went to the desk, sat down, and picked up the bronze pen. Turning to the first blank page, she started to write.

L
OOKING OVER LIZZIE'S SHOULDER,
Audrey watched as she wrote:

The script looked very similar to Lizzie's ordinary handwriting. A little darker perhaps, but not exactly the smooth, wide lines that seemed to flow almost automatically when Audrey held the bronze pen. But Lizzie didn't seem to notice the difference. As soon as she finished the sentence, she put the pen down decisively and, going over to where Beowulf was sleeping, sat down on the floor.

When Lizzie patted Beowulf on the head and said, “Hi there, you big beautiful monster,” he opened one eye, gave his tail a limp wag, and went on with his nap. Lizzie looked up at Audrey, shrugged, patted Beowulf more firmly, said,
“Hi” again, and waited some more. Still no response. At last she got to her feet and gave him a firm poke with the toe of her shoe. That got some action. Beowulf opened both eyes and looked at Lizzie accusingly before he staggered to his feet, padded to the other side of the room, and collapsed again, quickly and firmly closing his eyes.

“Well, so much for that experiment,” Lizzie said. “I guess that settles it. The pen just doesn't work for anyone but you.”

“I guess maybe that's it,” Audrey said. She nodded and then shook her head and then nodded it again before she said, “Or maybe you have to write a story about what you want to have happen. Like I did when I wrote about talking to animals. Maybe it didn't work for you because you only wrote a kind of wish.”

Lizzie shook her head, slowly at first and then more decisively. “I don't think that's it. You wished you could send that warning, and it happened. And then you wished we could go to the cave, and you went, all right. But not me. So that's not it. Like I said, it just won't work for me.”

They sat down again on the bed, and for a while neither one said anything. Lizzie stared off into space, and Audrey watched her cautiously, wondering what she was thinking.

Suddenly Lizzie said, “Okay. How about this? Maybe you write about something really out-of-this-world happening r
ight here
in the room. That way if I can't be a part of it, at least I can watch it happening.”

That seemed like an interesting, if slightly alarming, possibility. “So, what kind of out-of-this-world thing should I have happen?” Audrey asked warily.

“Let's see.” Lizzie looked around the room. “How about if you wrote…” After a moment she said, “I don't know. Maybe you could…” She got up then and walked around, stopping briefly to look at an old picture of Nellie Elgin, Audrey's grandmother, standing in front of the Elgin house when it was nice and new. Lizzie shook her head and went on to the dragon collection. When she picked up a particularly evil-looking purple dragon and examined it thoughtfully, Audrey quickly said she didn't think so.

Lizzie sighed, nodded, and, leaving the dragons, started on the books. She ran her fingers along the spines of the books, pausing now and then, but only briefly, until her hand stopped moving and she said, “Hey,
The Jungle Book.
That's one of my favorites. How about writing something about
The Jungle Book
?”

Audrey laughed. “Like what? Should I write about my room turning into a jungle?”

“Yeah,” Lizzie said excitedly, and then she shook her head. “No. That might be too much to ask.” She thought a bit longer before her eyes lit up again. “But maybe you could bring some of the characters from the book here?”

“Oh, sure.” Audrey's smile was a little sarcastic. “Like the tiger or maybe the python? Right here in my bedroom?”

“Well, maybe not.” After another long moment Lizzie rolled her eyes and grinned. “But you might ask for Mowgli?”

Audrey blinked, picturing a not-very-well-dressed jungle boy suddenly appearing in the middle of her room. It was a wild idea and she could imagine some problems that might arise, even if he only stayed for a minute. Like, for instance, how Beowulf might react. Of course the big dog always greeted strangers who came to the front door enthusiastically, but it was hard to say how he might feel about a stranger in a loincloth who arrived suddenly out of thin air.

Lizzie was saying, “Well, it may be a crazy idea, but it wouldn't hurt to try. I'll bet it could work.” Audrey was weakening, actually beginning to accept the idea that a visit by Mowgli might be kind of exciting, when there was a loud rap on the door. Catching her breath in a sharp gasp, Audrey stared at the door. It opened—but it was just her mother.

“Oh, hi, Mom,” Audrey said, trying not to sound as delighted as she felt. Well, pleasantly relieved, anyway. She must not have been entirely successful because Hannah Abbott looked surprised—and pleased.

“Hi, yourself,” she said to Audrey, and then to Lizzie, “I've just discovered that I'm going to have to make a quick trip to the pharmacy. Would you like a ride home?” She looked at her watch. “It's getting late and the buses are pretty unreliable this time of day.”

So Lizzie left, but before she went, she reminded Audrey that she wasn't going to be able to visit next Saturday because her whole family was leaving on a trip right after the last day of school.

“Oh yeah,” Audrey said. “I almost forgot.” She must have looked as disappointed as she felt because Lizzie said, “It's just for three weeks. And when I come back, it will still be summer vacation and we'll have lots of time to…” She paused and grinned as she went on, “To finish
The Jungle Book.
”

As the two of them started out the door, Audrey heard her mother saying that she was glad to hear they were reading
The Jungle Book
, because it had been one of her favorites when she was young.

So then there was a week of school again—the last one before summer vacation. Most of the tests were over, but things were extra busy with practice sessions for the eighth-grade graduation ceremony, as well as the putting up of displays in every hall and classroom. Nearly one whole wall in the art room was hung with Lizzie's art, not only dragons and caricatures, but also things she'd done recently in art class, including the
Debby's Dragon
book, which was displayed in a very prominent spot. There was a lot to think about at school, but when Audrey was home, she was still spending a lot of time thinking about the bronze pen.

It wasn't until the first Monday of summer vacation that Audrey came up with an interesting theory. She was
sitting at her desk at the time, holding the pen in her hand and looking at what Lizzie had written about talking to Beowulf. She asked herself for the umpteenth time why the pen had failed to do anything at all for Lizzie.

It was about then that she remembered reading somewhere that nothing would happen at séances or that sort of thing if someone who was a serious doubter was present. But that couldn't be the problem. If one thing was for sure and certain, it was that Lizzie really believed in the pen's power. Maybe even more than Audrey did.

But another explanation might be that Lizzie had failed because she had been too demanding—almost insisting that Beowulf talk to her! Maybe,
To
me,
Lizzie Morales
wasn't the kind of thing you should write with something like the bronze pen. After all, Audrey hadn't asked for
anything
when Beowulf and Sputnik started talking. She had simply written about a human being who could talk to animals. So perhaps it was all right to make a suggestion, but not to give an order.

That might be it. Probably not, but maybe it was worth a try. A test of some sort. Like, for instance, she might try giving an order. Try writing a demand for action of some sort and then, if nothing happened, try doing it again in a more polite, or at least indirect, way. Then, if the order didn't work and the request did, it would prove…what? Well, maybe that Lizzie ought to try again, only more politely this time. Not right away, of course, since she was
away visiting relatives in Mexico, but maybe as soon as she got back.

So what should Audrey try demanding? Not something she really wanted a whole lot or needed badly, she decided. Just something she would like but could probably manage to do without, since this was the wish that wasn't at all likely to be granted. When nothing had come to mind after several minutes, Audrey got up and walked around the room, as Lizzie had done when she came up with the
Jungle Book
suggestion. Except that Audrey went right past the dragons and the bookshelves and the bed, coming to a stop in front of her chest of drawers. Pulling open one of the drawers, she stared inside briefly, then hurried back to sit at her desk and pick up the pen.

Remembering to be demanding, she crossed out the word “need” and put in “want”:

No “please” and no “thank you.” That ought to do it.

Sure enough, no bathing suit. Even after Audrey had waited patiently for nearly ten minutes and checked all the places it might be. Not on her desk and not on her bed and
not in the drawer where she kept her old outgrown suit. So the next step would be to try it in a nicer way. Perhaps in a way that would be more like a mere suggestion. Or even a kind of story, like the ones about talking animals and the baby dragon. After some thought she began:

After reading over what she had written, Audrey went back and crossed out the word “small,” and wrote “flat” instead.

She thought briefly of adding something about how poor her family was now because of her dad's angina pectoris, but then she decided against it. A suggestion was one thing, but begging was another.

For the next five or ten minutes Audrey waited, sitting at her desk, before she got up and checked in all her dresser drawers and even in her closet. Not that she'd ever hung a bathing suit on a clothes hanger. But then again, maybe some people, or some magical forces, might. No bathing suit.

She sat on the edge of the bed and waited some more. She went on waiting as she stretched out on the bed and took a brief nap. When she woke up, she decided that there must be times when a suggestion, even if it's written as if it were part of a story, didn't work any better than just plain asking. And this must be one of them.