The Boy with 17 Senses (3 page)

A huge smile burst across Jaq's face. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you so much!”

“He's just a runt,” Jaq said as he showed the tiny creature to his mother and grandfather. “A farmer was going to let him die. He might not even survive.”

“Jaq!” His mother was angry; he could tell by the way red splotches appeared on her neck. “I told you, no pets!”

“I'll feed him myself,” Jaq said. “You won't have to do anything. Mom, please. Please let me keep him. You know I wouldn't say please unless it was really important.” The word
please
had a sweet, oily taste. It was the kind of word that got really annoying if it was used too much.

“He won't live through the night,” Grandpa predicted. “Sorry, kiddo.”

“Please,” he said again, wincing. “I'll never ask for anything again.”

“Darn it, Jaq,” his mother said. “I wish I didn't have to come home to more problems. I have enough of them at work.”

“Please, Mom,” Jaq said. “Having a freasel—it's my dream come true.”

“I dream of getting my land back from that farm-stealing Ripley Vilcot,” said Grandpa. “But a little pet is nice, too, I guess.”

The baby freasel was so small and frail that Jaq was afraid to touch him. He scooped up the little frip as if he were picking up a thin-shelled rickle egg, the kind that cracks if you so much as breathe on it.

He was so beautiful, with reddish-brown fur, a white belly, four stubby little legs, and two arm buds popping out of his front shoulders. So tiny!

Jaq's chest filled up, up, up with joy.

“What are you going to name him?” Grandpa asked, leaning in for a look.

“Klingdux,” Jaq said. He'd had the name picked out forever.

“Like the superhero?” Grandpa said. “Good choice.”

Jaq didn't sleep a wink that night; he sat up watching Klingdux, willing the tiny creature to keep breathing.

“You're a superhero, little buddy,” he whispered. “You're stronger than anything.”

He dripped milk into Klingdux's mouth from a spoon whenever his new pet woke up, but mostly the little critter slept.

Live
, Jaq begged.
Please live
.

4

THE SOUND OF CRYING IS MAROON—IT DANCES AROUND UNTIL YOU NOTICE IT

B
y now you may have noticed that Yipsmixers don't sense the world in quite the same way as most people do on Earth, or Zanflid, or Epsidor Erandi. Yipsmixers taste words. They see numbers as having both color and personality. But that's not all; they also see sounds. To them, sounds have color and shape and movement. Some people on Earth have senses like this, and it's called
synesthesia
. This extrasensory ability doesn't have a name on Zanflid or Epsidor Erandi.

When a Yipsmixer looks at a tree filled with chirping
birds, those chirping sounds make tiny blasts of red appear, like exploding apples. Listening to music is like watching a flowing tapestry of light and color that swirls through a person's vision. And the sound of crying looks like jumpy tangles of maroon floating like streamers.

Jaq's first night with Klingdux was filled with jagged maroon streaks that woke him whenever he drifted off to sleep. He didn't mind, though, because crying meant that Klingdux was still alive.

Jaq watched his pet carefully over the next few days. He noted which colors swirled out of Klingdux when he whimpered, growled, or hissed. Most Yipsmixers are very good with animals, because they communicate with all their senses. Jaq not only heard every noise his frip made—he saw and tasted and felt those noises, too. He soon learned that a whimper that filled his vision with frothy orange bubbles meant hunger. Yellow blasts meant pain. Velvety purple swirls meant “Play with me.” Sometimes the whimpers were so faint, he couldn't hear them, but he saw them.

He listened and watched and tasted and learned, and he kept Klingdux alive.

Weeks passed, and Klingdux grew bigger and stronger. During those weeks, Jaq braved the merciless herd of
wippers every day, telling himself that soon, soon, his freasel would be ready.

Jaq shared everything with Klingdux: his food, his narrow bed in the corner of the one-room house, and his blanket. He used his farmers' market money to buy special freasel food. Taking care of Klingdux made Jaq feel capable and happy, especially in Rumbletime, when the skies thundered worse than an angry Vilcot who didn't get to cut in line at the carnival. Klingdux would curl his shaking body next to Jaq, making Jaq feel like the brave one. He was the best friend Jaq had ever had.

Klingdux grew stronger every day. He was quick and agile on those four short legs. His long, sleek body scurried and twisted through the house, which wasn't a problem until his arms grew in. As soon as those little arm buds on his front shoulders lengthened, the baby freasel started grabbing anything he could reach. He'd clutch his prize, then spin around like a discus thrower and sling it across the room.

Jaq smiled and laughed at his frisky pet. “Isn't he fantastic?”

His mother rolled her eyes. His grandfather shook his head and mouthed the word
no
, but Jaq didn't see that.

After Klingdux broke two cups, a plate, and his mother's
reading glasses, Jaq made a ball out of rags and let Klingdux sling that. Soon the thumping sound of the rag hitting a wall filled the house whenever Klingdux was awake.

“Enough!” his mother screamed one evening after a long day at the hushware factory. “I want that little ball of destruction out!”

“But, Mom,” Jaq said. “He's too small. He's not ready.”

“You put him outside or I will,” she said, her neck turning purple. “He's woken me up every night, and I can't take it anymore.”

Jaq's heart fell, but he picked up his pet and headed outside with his blanket. He wasn't going to let Klingdux sleep alone. They curled up on the back porch together and slept.

The next morning, Jaq woke up with the sun. Klingdux slept peacefully next to him, wrapped in the blanket. Jaq stood and stretched.

“Klingdux, I really don't think you're ready for this,” he said.

Klingdux popped up, his lithe body swiveling in happiness.

“Those wippers are so fast and vicious. And you're so small.” Jaq walked to the edge of the porch and looked out over the ripweed field. The stalks seemed to be shooing him
away as they swayed in the breeze, as if they were warning him of danger.

Klingdux followed him to the edge of the porch. “Stay,” Jaq commanded, holding up a hand. Klingdux sat down and waited.

Jaq prepared to enter the field. The ripweed stalks were as high as his waist. He looked back at Klingdux, who was watching him intently. Jaq swallowed over a lump in his throat. He hoped Klingdux was ready, but what if he wasn't? What would those wippers do to him? There were so many of them, and only one Klingdux.

Jaq stepped into the field. The morning was quiet, and Jaq could feel his heart thumping.
This is it
, he thought.
This is what he's meant to do. He can do it
.

But what if he can't?

Another step. He sensed the eyes of the wippers on him. He imagined they were taking their time, letting him suffer in suspense as they thought up the perfect insult. Suddenly, panic flooded his body. He couldn't do this to Klingdux. Klingdux wasn't ready.

Jaq turned to go inside. But it was too late.

“Oh, look—it's the kid with bangs.” A wipper had cut off Jaq's route back to the porch. When Jaq turned around, he
saw that he was surrounded. He'd fallen into their ambush. “You ever think about shaving the whole mess off?”

“Yeah, bald is in,” said another.

The sound of wipper laughter filled the air.

“Not with that head,” another said. “He'd look like a melted snow cone.”

More laughter.

“Or a half-filled balloon, waiting for more air to lift it up.”

The other wippers agreed. And laughed.

“Or . . . um . . . a bald kid with a misshapen head.”

This one was followed by silence.

“Good grief, Bonip. Use a simile or something.”

“Sorry. Um . . . like a green leafy cabbage, except not green, or leafy, or cabbage-y, but the same roundish shape? And then, um, sort of squished?”

“Somebody hit him for me,” said the first.

As the wippers fought among themselves, Jaq looked back at Klingdux, who was shaking with desire to run into the field. He'd seen the wippers. Jaq could tell he wanted to sling them.

“Let's bite his ankles,” one of the wippers said, and Jaq felt a sharp pain by his foot. When he swung around,
another attacked from behind, just like always. They hopped away from his kicks with tremendously high jumps. It was as if they had powerful springs in their hind legs. They were infuriating.

And they were everywhere. Jaq couldn't take it anymore, so he shouted, “Klingdux!”

Swift as a sandstorm, Klingdux raced off the porch and into the field, his long body twisting around plants. He swooshed through the stalks, sneaking up on the nearest wipper and grabbing it with his long arms. He whirled about in a tornado of spinning, and then—
whoosh!
He let the wipper fly.

It was a spectacular display of athleticism. A thing of beauty! Like watching a wrestling match of graceful dance moves.

“Look out! Wipper-slinger!” the wippers cried.

Jaq could feel the panic of the wippers as they scurried and hopped, but Klingdux was just too fast. He ran them down and threw them, again and again. And when the wippers jumped into the air to escape, soaring higher than Jaq's head, Klingdux would track their flight and be waiting when they landed. And then he'd sling them over the plants and across the field, and, if it was a really good sling, the wipper would hit a tree and fall down—
splat!
They always shook
themselves and got back up, but the tree-hit wippers took a little longer to return.

Jaq smiled so wide, his face hurt. Sure, those pesky wippers would be back. They always came back. But he'd have at least a couple of hours to work in peace, and that was just fine. Klingdux could just sling them again. Over and over.

It was the best, happiest morning of Jaq's life.

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