Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-4893169-20160223234242

I suggest reafing Part One first to really understand what's really going on> Dolbeer in Winter

'''Chapter 1. Snow Day--Part Two'''

It didn’t take Pierard long to realize that he was in over his head. What was supposed to be a simple errand was now turning into a monumental task. A minute ago, the sky was overcast with just a hint of sunshine. Now it was full of dark, menacing clouds, and there was another meteorological condition—snow, and it wasn’t in a light flurry either.

Pierard soon found himself wondering why he ever volunteered in the first place. Why did he eagerly ventured into this unpredictable weather when he could have stayed home by a nice crackling fire, and let someone else take the risk of fetching a good plumber.

Now the wind was picking up and he was being pelted by millions of freezing hazelnut-sized flakes. Pierard opened his beak to screech out his frustration, but choked on a breath of snow instead.

That’s it! he thought angrily. ''To heck with this fetching the plumber business! I’m going back!''

Twicky was in command of the bucket and towel brigade. She was very good at getting things organized and boosting community spirit. Pierard’s party guests soon regarded the gushing faucet crisis as a game, and eagerly searched for things to stem the rising flood. This was far more exciting than studying for exam or cleaning house. Had it been Pierard giving the orders instead of Twicky, there would have been great dissension among the ranks.

Tris came out of her room just as everyone was joining in some dam building. “Hey, has anyone seen Pierard?” she said as she walked towards them. She then stopped dead in her tracks and stared at the floor.

The first thing she noticed was a soggy mound of towels and rags blocking the bathroom doorway.

The door was opened and she could hear the sound of rushing water coming from inside. A thoroughly soaked Pascal was squatting next the pile, trying to mop up the water streaming underneath.

“Twicky!” yelled Pascal over his shoulder. “These paint sheets of yours aren’t helping one bit!”

“There’s more sheets in that linen closet next to the bathroom,” said Twicky, dodging other helpers mopping and sponging.

“But Twicky,” Pascal insisted. “I don’t think sheets or anything else is going to help alleviate this situation! Couldn’t we at least shut the bathroom door?”

“Well, that would help if we had a watertight door like the kind you find in a submarine,” Twicky answered. “But most people just have the ordinary wooden sort.”

She halted at the top of the stairs.

“Hustle, hustle, people,” she hollered. “We need more buckets and sponges!”

Tris heard someone holler back, “Coming!”

“How’s Cheryl’s company coming on with the search for the shut-off valve?” asked Twicky.

“No luck yet!” came a reply.

“Great,” Twicky muttered under her breath. “Just great.” She then called back, “Well, keep on looking! It’s got to be around somewhere!”

There came a strange noise from downstairs, like someone groaning. Then Tris heard Cheryl call out, “Twicky?”

“Yes, Cheryl?” said Twicky.

“Why am I doing this?” Cheryl cried. “I should be composing odes and sonnets about the unusual weather we’re having, but instead, I’m looking for a lousy shut-off valve!”

“I’m sorry, Cheryl,” said Twicky apologetically, “but since we’re in danger of being flooded out of house and home, everyone’s got to pitch in to help stop the water.”

“Yeah, but why me?” Cheryl protested. “I’m a poet, not a plumber. Shouldn’t Gregory be doing this instead?”

“Well, Gregory’s got the job of finding something to plug the broken faucet,” answered Twicky. “And since Pierard’s off trying to find a plumber, I’m afraid you’re stuck with stopping the water instead.”

“Oh, very well!” Cheryl replied huffily. “C’mon everybody, we got a shut-off valve to find.”

“Okay, Miss MacGibbon!” Tris heard someone yell, probably one of the Frizzle Frack.

“Don’t call me that!” said Cheryl menacingly. One of the things she hated the most was being called by her last name.

Just then, a Kludge rat bounded up the stairs, clutching several large towels and blankets.

“Sorry, Twick,” he said, turning to her, “but we seemed to out of sponges. All I could find are these towels.”

“Well, I guess they’ll do,” Twicky said with a shrug, “better give them to Pascal then. If anyone’s in desperate need of towels, it’s him.”

The Kludge rat ran over to give Pascal the blankets and towels.

“Here you go,” he said.

“Thanks,” said Pascal absently.

He looked more closely at one the blankets.

“Now, wait just a minute!” he suddenly yelled. “Where’d you get this?”

“From the wash,” replied the Kludge rat, rather puzzled at Pascal’s outburst.

“You can’t use this!” cried Pascal, standing up and waving his blanket in the air. “This happens to be my security blanket!”

“But it’s dirty,” the Kludge rat muttered, not really seeing what the fuss was all about. “Besides, aren’t you a bit old for this blanket-carrying stuff?”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Pascal. “If people have magical charms and nightlights to keep the monsters away, then I don’t see the problem with having a security blanket!”

Tris then cleared her throat. With a start, Pascal looked up.

“Oh, hi Tris,” he said, quickly whipping the blanket behind him. He ruffled his feathers in embarrassment.

“Howdy do, Pascal,” drawled Tris, stepping carefully around the wet awful mess to join him. “So, what’s up with the plumbing? No wait…don’t tell me!” she started grinning mischievously. “Some booby thought he could actually fix a simple leak with just a monkey wrench and a hacksaw.”

“How’d you guess?” asked Pascal, not the least bit amused. “Put your ear to the woodwork?”

“Don’t make me laugh,” said Tris, looking pompous. She tapped one of her ears. “We Churcka got really excellent hearing. Why should we go through all that trouble of listening at the door when we can just sit back and prick up our ears?”

She surveyed for a minute their sorry attempts at dam building.

“Nice job,” she remarked gleefully. “What is it?”

Pascal grimaced in disgust. “It’s suppose to be a dam,” he muttered.

“Dam?” Tris exclaimed in dismay. “Looks more like a wet pile of laundry to me.”

Pascal rolled his eyes and sighed wearily.

“Yes, I quite agree,” he said patiently, “it’s crude and leaky, but what do expect when you’re in a hurry and the only materials you have to work with are towels and dish rags.”

“Don’t forget blankets,” the Kludge rat chimed in.

Pascal glared at him.

“Well, I’ll be seeing you dweebs,” said Tris, chuckling. “Sure hope Cheryl finds that shut-off valve in time, or we’ll all end up with gills and webbed feet like those folk in Kraken Port.”

Chortling merrily, she then turned and headed for the third floor stairs.

“Sheesh!” exclaimed an Elf, watching her go. “Is she always that snarky?”

Twicky glanced at him, then shrugged. “You should see her on one of her bad days,” she said softly.

What a murderous storm! thought Pierard as he hobbled up the winding road towards the house. He could barely see it behind all these thick, swirling flakes. ''Too windy to fly; too cold to walk, and you can forget about hailing a cab! This is the Torian Coast for goodness’s sake! It’s not supposed to snow here! We’re too zarking close to the freaking ocean!''

“Weeeeeeeooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!”

“What en Yarblick waz that?” he squawked. All the feathers on his head were standing straight on end. Pierard heard the appalling wail again, this time through the large overhanging willow trees bordering the path. “The wind,” he muttered, “just the wind. Sounded more like a Banshee to me.”

Cripes, he thought, suddenly remembering Cheryl’s stories about these Celtic harbingers of doom. If that was a Banshee I heard, then my goose is totally cooked.

'''Chapter 2. Tris the Private Eye'''

Tris found Gregory in his room, carving on a large stick of wood. Piles of wood shavings littered the carpet as well as his feet.

“It’s supposed to be a plug for the leak,” Gregory explained. “I tried using potter’s clay first, but the water melted right through.”

“Yeah, I was wondering what that icky stuff is splattered all over your sweater,” muttered Tris.

Gregory said nothing. He just concentrated on his work.

Tris looked at what he was carving and shook her head wonderingly.

“That’s supposed to be a plug?” she said. “Looks more like something you use to destroy a vampire with.”

Gregory out down his jack knife, and gave her a sour look.

“Tris,” he said wearily. “Do you have anything important to tell me or are you just being a nuisance?”

“Nuisance?” Tris sniffed. “Don’t get snarky with me, pal, or I won’t tell you about Pierard’s discovery.”

Oh, no! thought Gregory in despair. ''Not another treasure map! Can’t we ever have a day without surprises and silliness?

“Look, can’t this wait?” he said impatiently, “I got a faucet to fix.”

“Oh, all right,” said Tris, a bit irate. “I’ll wait here while you shove that stake into that wretched faucet.”

“Not shove, pound,” Gregory corrected. He got up and went over to his worktable. “I’ll just use one of these,” he said briskly, picking up a large wooden mallet. With that, he walked out the room.

Moments later, Gregory returned, more heavily drenched and exhausted.

“Well, how’d it go?” asked Tris.

“Don’t ask,” Gregory set the mallet back on the worktable and slumped down in his chair.

“Well, what happened?” Tris insisted in exasperation. “Did it work or didn’t it?”

“It did,” said Gregory grimly, “after several maddening attempts. What jolly fun I had; sloshing through icy-cold water, getting sprayed in the face, nearly squashing my thumb with the mallet, but finally, I pounded the wretched thing in. Now it’s all up to Cheryl to stop the water permanently.”

“Listen, Greg,” said Tris. “Since you’re done with the faucet; I’m going to tell you about what Pierard found in the dining room fireplace.”

“Well, since my day’s nearly ruined anyway,” said Gregory with a resigned shrug. “What did Pierard find that’s so important?”

“This!” Tris exclaimed dramatically, pulling out a small brass plate from her pants’s pocket.

“What’s so unusual about a piece of metal?” asked Gregory, frowning.

“It’s a nameplate Pierard found while he was cleaning up the remains of Twicky’s newest paperweight,” Tris explained. “He claimed the one he just busted belonged to the wickedest magician in all of Toria.”

“Hal Gresham?” grumbled Gregory. “You have got to be kidding. The authorities confiscated all his black magic equipment after he was imprisoned at Kennicott Asylum. I’m afraid Pierard’s greatly mistaken.”

“No, he wasn’t,” said Tris, shaking her head. “Cause if you look carefully,” she held the plate unnecessarily close to Gregory’s eyes, “you will see the letters of that most infamous name…G…R…E…S…”

“Give me that!” shouted Gregory in annoyance at being forced to read something without his reading glasses. After putting them on, he examined the brass plate carefully. Finally he handed it back.

“That still doesn’t prove anything,” he said, frowning skeptically. “There're a lot of people named Gresham.”

“Yeah, but how many of them have a heraldic crest of a skull smoking a cigar?” asked Tris sharply.

“That’s supposed to be a skull?” said Gregory, looking puzzled. “I thought it was a snarling monkey’s head?”

“I think you need better glasses,” Tris muttered. “The point is that this is an evil wizards’ symbol, and the paperweight was once the property of the infamous Hal Gresham.”

“Yeah, and I’m a spring onion,” said Gregory, still unconvinced. “So what’s Pierard suggesting, that Twicky broke into Gresham’s house and stole the paperweight?”

“Either Twicky or one of her fellow collectors,” replied Tris thoughtfully, rubbing her chin.

“What a load of cow pies!” exclaimed Gregory furiously. “Pierard’s got some nerve accusing Twicky of thievery. So what other evidence did Inspector Numskull tell you?”

“That not all those marvelous things she has are from honest deals and auctions,” Tris went on. “That menagerie of hers; those aren’t just cute little pets, they’re clever little thieves, specially trained in the fine art of  robbery. Turns out Twicky’s a trickster, just like me, but she doesn’t specialize in harmless practical jokes.”

“I wouldn’t call all your practical jokes harmless,” Gregory grumbled, remembering incidents when Tris tripped people into ponds and mud puddles. “You actually believed all this hooey Pierard told you, based on a confounded paperweight? Well, you certainly didn’t convince me, Tris. I wouldn’t be surprised if that parrot’s leading you on a wild goose chase.”

He got up and headed for the door. Tris caught hold of his shirt, pulling him back.

“Listen to me,” she hissed frantically, “there’s still more. Pierard said he broke Twicky’s paperweight accidentally, because he saw something inside that scared him really bad, something like a dragon. He also thinks that Twicky might have some more stuff of Gresham stowed away somewhere.”

Ice-encrusted and numb with cold, Pierard fumbled at the knob. Finally, much to his relief, the door opened.

As he staggered in, he saw blearily that he was in the dining room and it was crowded with people. They were all looking at him in astonishment.

“The wind blew me head-over-heel, and I ended up in a snow bank,” he wheezed. “Took a while to get my bearings and find the house.”

“Cripes, he’s like a feathered icicle!” someone cried. “Quick, somebody get ‘em some blankets!”

“Well,” said Pascal resignedly, “ guess he can use my blanket then. I won’t be needing it at the moment.”

Wrapped up in the warm blanket, Pierard was then led to a cozy chair next to a welcoming fire.

“Sit down here and warm yourself,” said Twicky soothingly, “and here’s a cup of warm cocoa.”

“Thanks,” said Pierard. He thought about asking Twicky about the plumbing, but then decided the problem was finally taken care of.

Everyone was sitting close to the fireplace, discussing the strange winter weather and sipping their warm drinks. Grateful, Pierard drank some of his cocoa and watched the dancing flames.

“Do you think this is really necessary?” Gregory hissed through gritted teeth. “This is ludicrous, Tris! Simply ludicrous!”

He was tugging at Tris’s sleeve as they neared Twicky’s room. On the door there was tacked a placard that in big bold letters:

TRESPASSERS'''

BEWARE!!! THESE PREMISES

ARE PATROlLED BY

SPECIALLY TRAINED

ATTACK LOATAS!'''

“Well, if you’re so scared of spiny striped rats,” Tris replied, “you can go help the others in the battle with the troublesome faucet. You didn’t have to volunteer as the detective’s bumbling assistant, and why in the world are you whispering? There’s no reason to whisper? Everyone’s downstairs mopping up or trying to find the shut-off valve!”

“Hey!” exclaimed Gregory. “The real reason I came is not to assist you on this half-baked quest, but to pull you out of a fix should Twicky get back!”

“Well, Twicky doesn’t have jet propulsion like those humans in your science fiction collection,” said Tris matter-of-factly. “So we have plenty of time to search her entire room”

“She may not have the ability to go super fast,” reminded Gregory, “but she’s a Klantahern, and Klantaherns often have a keen sense of smell.”

“Well, don’t all nonhumans have a keen sense of smell?” replied Tris offhandedly. “That’s what distinguishes us from that destructive simian species that overran our first home world.”

“I’m not talking about noses stronger than that of humans,” growled Gregory. “I’m talking about noses that exceed those of most living creatures.”

Tris stopped in her tracks.

“You mean she could smell the scent that comes off our fingers and clothes?”

Gregory nodded. “Yes,” he said, “and she could smell out a dragon standing a block away.”

Tris thought about this for a few minutes.

“Look,” she said finally, “see if you can find some dish-washing gloves, waders, raincoats, lotsa mothballs and potpourri.”

“We don’t have a lot a potpourri!” argued Gregory, “and why bother wearing protective clothing when our scent’s just going to go right through them anyway!”

“You’re right,” agreed Tris, “I wonder what can we use to hide our scent?”

“Well, I read in a book that red pepper makes dogs sneeze,” Gregory vaguely recalled.

“That’s it!” Tris exclaimed excitedly. “That’s it!” She grabbed Gregory by the paws and spun him around several times. “Greg!” she cried. “You’re a real help!”

Then she scurried down the hall. Gregory glumly followed, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut.

'''Chapter 3. Inside Twicky’s Room'''

Pierard was now fast asleep, and the guests were discussing in quieter voices. They were trying to decide whether they should go home as soon as the blizzard stopped or have some fun in the snow. Already the Frizzle Fracks were off amusing themselves, having magically shifted their shapes into creatures with thick winter coats.

“Now if only they’ll go home,” Pascal muttered.

Tris and Gregory came back a while later, clad in protective clothing. Both wore raincoats with plastic hats fastened on their heads, matching trousers stuffed in galoshes, and their hands were encased in rubber gloves. When they opened the door to Twicky’s room, both were amazed. An ornate carpet with floral patterns covered the floor. Masks and beautiful paintings adorned half of the entire wall, but what they found most amazing was what was covering the other half. Stacked upon row after row of shelves were various things from books to boxes full of antique knickknacks.

“This must be where she stores her small stuff,” Gregory murmured. He picked up a crumpled piece of parchment that resembled a scrap of rubbish, left by some absentminded janitor or sloppy rodent. He caught a whiff of the odor that rose up from the ancient page.

“Aach!” he said disgustedly, dropping it back into its box. “Smells like it’s cursed or improperly cured!”

“Better sprinkle some red pepper over it,” instructed Tris. “Even with gloves on, we have to make sure our smell is covered. Remember what you said earlier? Klantaherns can smell the slightest scent rubbed off from your fingers and clothes. You don’t want Twicky to know you were rummaging through her stuff?”

“I don’t see what good this silly superstition is going to do!” snarled Gregory. “If she can smell us through all this red pepper! Are you listening to me, Tris?”

“Sssshhhh!” Tris hissed. “I think I hear something!”

“Probably Twicky,” Gregory muttered. His large brown eyes flicked nervously about.

“Oh, will you quit worrying about Twicky!” Tris snapped. “And anyway, Twicky wouldn’t make such lout snorting noises!”

The “snorting noises” they were hearing happened to be the snores of the creature curled up underneath a pillow. For the past hour he had been steadily gaining his bulk and energy from the large breakfast he had.

“It’s probably one of her pets!” said Gregory impatiently. “Come on, time’s-a-wasting. Let’s look for some clues and get out of here.”

“Right,” said Tris, shifting her attention away from listening to poking around. “You search those shelves of antique toys,” she instructed, “and I’ll search these shelves of ancient artifacts.”

Gregory wasn’t put off. He had noticed that all too familiar gleam in Tris’s eyes.

“Tris,” he said gruffly, “we’re here in search of a bag of stolen loot, not to steal gold and jeweled artifacts.”

“Must you be such a worrier, Greg?” Tris sneered. “You make Twicky sound like she’s going to come storming through the door at any minute now.”

“That’s what I’m most afraid of,” Gregory growled.

“Well, quit worrying about it,” suggested Tris, “and help me find some of Gresham’s stuff!”

“All right,” said Gregory briskly, “I’ll take the sovereigns from beach combing, and you can take the odds and ends lot.”

Tris started to protest, but promptly shut up when Gregory gave her a serious, no-nonsense, behave-yourself look.

Pierard was having a nightmare involving a giant purple caterpillar.

“Help, Cheryl! It’s after me!” he shouted. “Quick, give me a broom!” Thrashing himself free of the blankets, he fell out of chair and woke up.

“Whoa, relax neighbor,” said an elderly Growlzer, helping him to his feet. “You were just having a bad dream.”

“I did?” spluttered Pierard, then quickly composing himself. “Oh yes, I did. It was awful. This huge, hairy purple caterpillar was comin’ to eat me.”

“Did it happened to have green tusks,” inquired the sorcerer, Zeph Nesbit. He was a bone-thin bespectacled man with a goatee and tattoos stitched across his bald scalp.

“Yes, it did,” replied Pierard. “Do you know what it was?”

“Sure do,” said Zeph, quickly slipping something in his jacket pocket. “That was an Awd Goggie, a well-know bogie whose main purpose in life is to keep thieving children away from the fruit orchards.”

“Well, I’m definitely not a child,” Pierard muttered thoughtfully. “So I haven’t the slightest idea of where I came up with such a ghastly critter.”

“Perhaps Pascal’s blanket‘s resenting being used to keep you warm,” Zeph suggested, grinning.

Pascal wasn’t there to raise an objection to this comment. He happened to be in the kitchen, fetching more warm drink for everyone.

“Aye,” muttered Pierard, gingerly nudging away the blanket with his foot. “That could be it.”

Like many Relmaries, Pierard possessed the long-held belief that many inanimate objects come with their own individual minds and personalities.

“So what’s the latest news on the busted faucet?” Pierard asked, anxious to change the subject.

“Well, Gregory plugged it with a sharpened piece of wood,” Twicky explained.

“So it’s fixed?”

“Now I wouldn’t say it’s fixed, it’s just not spouting up a storm anymore.”

“The faucet’s still not fixed?” greeched Pierard. “Bilge and barnacles! Well, why’s everyone sitting around here then? Hop to it, people!”

“We can’t hop to it,” Twicky replied, exasperatingly. “We don’t have the proper plumbing equipment, plus no plumber’s going to bother coming here through all this blinding snow.”

“Oh, what do you know about plumbers anyway?” grumbled Pierard.

“Enough to know that they don’t come when you need them the most,” said Twicky brusquely, “and when they do come, they charge an exorbitant amount for their services.”

“Well, I’m goin’ to get one anyway,” Pierard announced determinately, “even if I have to walk twenty-two miles to Port Bognar to do it.”

He glanced towards Zeph. “Unless Mister Nesbit here got some special spell to miraculously fix the faucet.”

“Sorry, but when it comes to magically making household repairs, I’m afraid I’m insufficiently versed on the subject, ” informed Zeph. “That department is best left to the qualified wish-granters and home repair specialists.”

“Some magic,” Pierard grumbled, storming out of the room.

“That parrot needs to go soak his head,” Zeph remarked gravely.

“He already had a good soaking in the river,” said Twicky, putting more wood in the fire, “and what good did it do? He’s still the same ole obnoxious Pierard.”

The Growlzer didn’t say anything. He was looking suspiciously at Zeph. “What have you got hiding in that jacket of your?” he asked.

Zeph gave a nonchalant shrug, and said, “Oh nothing extraordinary, just a box of night crawlers for my upcoming fishing trip.”

The Growlzer’s eyes narrowed to slits.

“A bit cold to go for a fishing trip, don’t you think?”

There was uncomfortable pause before Zeph replied, “Yes—Well, it’s for much later. When the snows eventually clear up.”

The Growlzer then held out his furry paw and said, “May I see that box of night crawlers?”

“Certainly!” replied Zeph cheerily. “Congratulation, you just won first prize! A box full of squirming, reddish-purple nematodes!” With that he produced from his jacket pocket a small cardboard box full of small rustling  things.

The Growlzer took it, opened it up, and looked at what was inside. Then he sniffed the squirming pile.

“Your illusions don’t do too well when it comes to smell,” he said gruffly. “These aren’t worms, these are dreams;  bad dreams to be more precise.”

Zeph’s thins cheeks burned a bright crimson red. Now everyone was looking at him accusingly.

“Now, sir,” growled the Growlzer. “What did you want to give that poor parrot bad dreams for?”

“It was an accident!” insisted Zeph. “I swear!”

“Accident!—you numbskull. You mean it got loose on its own?”

“Yes, by the time I found out about it. It was already crawling into one of Pierard’s ears.”

“Well,” said Tris after poking through the last box of antique salt and pepper shakers, “that’s that lot.” She jabbed her thumb at the shelves bearing inscriptions such as “History, Poems, Ballads, Philosophy, Music,” and so on. “What say we check out the library.”

Her friend looked up from the box of idols he was examining. “If you so much as finger a single page of those,” he growled, “I’ll tell Twicky just as soon as she gets back.”

“Which might not be for another hour,” Tris said cheerfully. “You really got to learn how to lighten up, Greg.

You’ll get thin and your fur will fall out in patches unless you stop being so lily-livered and worrisome.”

Gregory shook his head gloomily. “The sooner we leave, the sooner I’ll stop my griping,” he said.

“Well, I hate to rain on your picnic,” said Tris exasperatingly, “but we can’t leave now. The loot’s got to be among those books. It sure as hork not in that trash pile you’re rooting through now.”

“How do you know its books?” Gregory asked irately. “Magic objects aren’t always books. They could be nearly anything—twigs, twine, pieces of bone, colored yarn, feathers, watches, fish hooks, spoons, coins…”

“I’m not saying it has to be books,” replied Tris, “it could be something else. Something that Twicky wants to keep separate from her usual junk collection. We won’t know for sure until we conduct a through search.”

“Maybe it’s a book after all,” muttered Gregory caustically. “A huge ugly Agrippa with rattling chains and fiery breath.”

Tris gave him a puzzled look.

“A what?”

“An Agrippa,” Gregory replied. “It’s a large, obnoxious, magic book named after a famous human philosopher. This thing’s tall as a man and with a temper to boot. You’re suppose to keep it padlocked, and suspended by a chain from a crooked beam in an empty room.”

“Naw,” said Tris, shaking her hand. “Twicky wouldn’t be that crazy to filch something like that. No profit in trying to sell something that could raze a house or blow you to smithereenies. It’s got to be something smaller and easy to handle.”

Seeing Tris was still intent on exploring the bookshelves, Gregory sighed and gave in.

“Okay,” he said, “you can search the books. I’ll continue with searching through the mishmash of baubles. Make sure you put everything back where they belong…And don’t sprinkle any of that flaming red pepper on the pages! They’re antiques for Cripes’s sake!”

“Of course,” said Tris jovially. “Call me Sam the Sneak. I promise I won’t leave the slightest little clue that showed we’ve been here.”

“More like Big-nosey Nincompoop,” grumbled her friend, turning back to the trinkets.

Tris didn’t hear him, she was too ecstatic. Somewhere in this mass of hoarded knowledge was a bag of treasure(golden trinkets hopefully) hidden away in some hollowed-out book. With great care, she took down a most likely disguise from the Archeology shelf. It read in tarnished gold letters; The Pharaohs of Ancient Khei by Doctor Evelyn Scatterbones.

“Hhhmmm,” she said, flipping through the yellowed pages. “Interesting, I wonder if it has something on how mummies were made? I always wondered how they got the brain out…Whaa?…Aruughhh!!!”

Tris slammed the cover down and stuffed the book back into the shelf, for it was at that moment a hand, that was just parchment skin and bone, came groping out of the illustration.

Gregory raced to her side.

“The heck happen?” he quivered.

“I was nearly throttled by a grubby old corpse!” Tris jabbered. “That’s what happened! By the whiskers of an elderly Banderzate! That bloody mummy book’s haunted!”

“Well, maybe they’re all like that,” said Gregory, looking worried. “Maybe it’s some new security system…You know, keep nosey parkers from sneaking a peek at all the priceless books.”

Tris shook her head, collecting her senses. “Yeah,” she said finally, “but why just the library? Why not the whole dratted collection? Nothing jumped out at us while we were rummaging through those blasted boxes. In fact, I haven’t seen or heard any of her furry sentries. There’s usually one or more lurking about somewhere.”

Gregory shrugged. “Who knows, maybe they’re all asleep? Maybe she’s trying out some new magical defense that specializes in attack book.”

Tris glanced at the other shelves. “Ahhh, they might not be all like that,” she said. “I think I’ll try another, only this time, one with less pictures.” She walked over to the shelf labeled “History.”

Gregory followed whispering nervously.

“Tris,” he hissed. “We done enough ransacking today; there’s no evidence that Twicky’s common thief! If she’s really practicing witchcraft; well, that’s her business then. Let’s get the blazes out of here!”

Tris ignored him, choosing a reddish-brown book. The white lettering said, A Biography of Akabar Jones by Lucius Dozoio.

“Hey, I’ve heard of him!” she exclaimed. “He was that pirate who roamed the Khelsi Sea in the year 1718 A. I. Clever bloke, but totally psychotic.”

“Hey, don’t mess with that!” warned Gregory. “If that thing’s magical, it might choke you…or else, give you a severe scorching.”

A gleam of amusement twinkled in Tris’s eyes.

“Yeah, sure,” she said, jokingly. “This is a pint-sized version of the Agrippa. Trust me, Greg. This old book is about as powerful and dangerous as a freaking pot holder.”

Whistling tunelessly, Tris began flipping through the pages full of brightly colored illustrations of dramatic oceanic battles and designs showing the various ships from merchant to marauder.

Then one the pictures began moving before their widening eyes.

“What the…!” Gregory began. “How the…?”

“Magic, my friend,” said Tris softly.

A severely crippled merchant ship wallowed in the swells off a tropical island. Her mainmast was splintered in half by a broadside, her outnumbered Elfin crew were desperately fighting to repel a swarm of boarding pirates, heaving grappling irons, grenades, and sulphur stink bombs. Billowing gray smoke from the battle rose up from the page. Tris wrinkled up her nose.

Gregory shuddered as an Elfin sailor ignited a powder keg to explode in the faces of the onrushing horde. At the head of the charging mob was a nightmarish figure in unkempt clothing, slashing about with a dagger and cutlass. He was lanky with a long gaunt face; wide, pale, penetrating eyes; long, black, stringing hair, and a smiling, slash-like mouth. It was Akabar Jones himself; howling, raging, and cackling like a half-crazed leekarul bird.

Just then there came an ominous whistling sound and a round black object shot up out of the smoke. A cannonball! Gregory thought, leaping back in terror. Tris, however was too stunned to move. She merely gawked as the as the once distant speck loomed larger and larger.

“Shut it!” Gregory cried. “Shut it for Cripes’s sake!” Backing hastily away, he tripped over a chair, and fell backward with a yell of fright.

The sound of her partner hollering brought Tris to her senses, yet instead of just closing the book, she quickly flipped the page over. A large round bump appeared on the opposite side making the projectile’s point of impact. The page bulged out like an immense bubble, then flattened slowly back to its original form.

“That was freaking close,” Tris said, wiping her brow and grinning with relief. Noticing her friend flat on his back, trembling, she said. “Really Greg, the fuss you make. You treat a few lively animated books as if they were hideous limb-ripping monsters. I’ve never known anyone who’d panicked like you just did. Keeping calm is simply a matter of quick wit, the ability to keep your head tightly screwed on in a crisis.”

Gregory didn’t answer, he just laid on the floor groaning.

“Are you all right?” asked Tris.

Gregory glared up at her.

“Oh fine, just fine,” he said sarcastically. “Simply marvelous. Never enjoyed myself more. Apart from having my face nearly flattened by a bewitched cannonball, bruising my shins black-and-blue, and the fact that my  spine and the back of my skull are probably busted. I’m having a wonderful, happy-go-lucky-day.”

He then hauled himself up, refusing Tris’s offers of assistance, and limped towards the door.

“Where are you going?” Tris asked.

“Going? Where do you think I’m going? I’m quitting this bloody half-baked treasure hunt.”

“Quit?” said Tris aghast. “You can’t quit now! We still have to find where Twicky stashed the loot from Hal Gresham’s house! We’ve got to expose her! Show Pierard the evidence! She’s nothing but a common crook on her rise to becoming a worldwide criminal with the help of Gresham’s stolen equipment!”

“Really, Tris,” said Gregory with a sigh. “Is that really your intention? Exposing Twicky as some criminal mastermind or are you really after the heap of treasure which Gresham reportedly stole from the various  museums and temples around the world?”

“Oh come off it, Greg,” said Tris aggrievedly. “You’re just as suspicious as Pascal. What do you think I am, a thieving magpie? I wouldn’t even go rooting through her stuff for a few bits of spare change, let alone a supposedly buried treasure! I’m not that daft…”

She stopped. Feeling moment under her fingers, she glanced down at the book to see what it was, and from that moment on everything promptly went from order to utter chaos.

Tris let out a howl of terror as Akabar came surging out of the page with the rapidness of a charging kraken. Before she could move, a bony, crook-nailed hand reached up and caught the front of her raincoat.

“Gotcha!” shrieked the pirate, dragging Tris down towards the page, its once smooth surface now a raging whirlpool.

Gregory groaned aloud to himself. Oh, why couldn’t we just have a humdrum, ordinary day for a change?  He thought in despair.

'''Chapter 4. What Pierard Found'''

Pierard went up to the attic to search for some cold weather clothes. If he was going to embark on a polar expedition to the plumber, he would have to prepare himself first.

Where to start? He frowned as he looked about the cluttered corners of the attic. Pierard wished he had brought along some extra help, but then they’d probably make a mess or simply tell he was crazy for trying to  travel in such weather.

I never thought it would be this messy, Pierard wandered over to an old-fashioned, pedal-powered sewing machine that had several wicker sewing baskets stacked on top. A long time ago, someone had used it to make clothes. He wondered whom exactly. He also wondered how much trouble it went into hauling it up here. It was a really heavy, bulky thing consisting mostly of cast-iron.

Pierard lifted off the lid of one sewing basket and examined the contents with interest. Numerous glass eyes on long silver pins stared blankly back at him. He opened some more baskets, there were scissors shaped like storks, a bunch of small-carved monsters, old bird nests full of glass-eyed insect buttons.

“Weird,” said Pierard, turning away. “I wonder if those once belonged to a loony dressmaker.”

He went to one of the trunks and tugged open the heavy lid. The first thing that caught his eye was a medium size book of dark tropical wood. He took it from the trunk and opened it. Inside he found a shriveled monkey mummy, which some person had cleverly fastened to the tail of a large perch, making a most unpleasant-looking mermaid. On the underside of the monkey-fish was a paper sticker, which read Souvenir of Bombay 1910.

Ruffling his feathers in disgust, Pierard set it aside. Next he found a cricket bat, a small leather-bound book by Par Voltaire, a pith helmet, a moth-eaten snakeskin (probably that of a python or an anaconda), a gold watch chain without a watch, and a dusty pair of half-moon  spectacles. Finally the trunk was empty of everything except the bottom layer of dust and long-dead insects.

Pierard, knowing a little bit about hidden panels and pockets, searched the inside of the lid. He didn’t find anything though.

Pierard sighed. It was too bad he didn’t find a pair of snowshoes, or better yet, a heap of hidden wealth. Oh well, he thought, not every chest is full of pirate gold. Maybe something might turn up if I look a bit harder.

Without putting everything back in the first trunk, Pierard went the next trunk. The first thing he saw were clothes, but they weren't the kind that were suitable to wear in cold weather. They were thin silk and lace, hardly enough to dust a fiddle.

Pierard dredged up one such costume. If the dress wasn’t a bright chartreuse I could cut it up for handkerchiefs, he thought, shaking his head in disgust.

Dumping the dress to one side, he continued rummaging through the clothes pile. He found some men’s garments, but they were all very old fashioned and long out-of-style.

“Dress-up, dress-up,” muttered Pierard to himself, “nothing but dress-up.”

He wondered if he had found some of his great Aunt Abigail’s stuff. She was his grandmother’s youngest sister, and wherever she went, she always wore kid gloves and jewelry. She had been a famous actress long before his time.

After some more searching, Pierard finally hauled out some interesting things: a dozen handcrafted walking sticks, a fancy tobacco pipe; and large photo album with a dark-red velvet cover. Its pages were filled with ancestral pictures of parrots; some of them with labels identifying them. Most of them seemed to have followed nautical occupations, one had served on a warship in the battle of Bamborgoo, which had happened at  the turn of the previous century. Another had worked for a sail maker, and one had worked in a store selling supplies to sailors.

Pierard’s eyes lit up with excitement as he turned page after page. It seemed he wasn’t the only one with the urge to adventure on water. Soon he forgot all about preparing for his winter walk to the plumber. The plumbing can take care of itself for all he cared.

As he reached the middle of the album, the pictures became color and more new. Pierard recognized several people, including his mother, father, and twin brother, Perry.

There were pictures of him and Perry when they were small, pink, prehistoric-looking babies, when they were just getting their pinfeathers, and when they were starting school.

There were even pictures of the family on vacation. Several of them were taken in Greever, an old ghost town near the windswept beach of Garmirin Split.

Pierard had thought the town was great, and would have done his own exploring if given the chance. Perry absolutely hated the place. He said he saw “things”—shadows shaping themselves in corners, wisps of fog with glowing red eyes, faces glimpsed in the woodwork. He also spoke of a lurking presence and an impending sense of doom.

Pierard continued leafing through the remaining pages. When he got to the end, he saw a yellowish envelope taped to the back of the album. Excited, Pierard opened it, half-expecting some money or some rare stamps. What he pulled out instead was a tarnished brass key.

Pierard sighed heavily. ''Why did it have to be a key, and such an ordinary-looking one too. It looked very similar to the key for his parents’ laundry room.''

He was about to slip it back in the envelope when something caught his eye. What had once a moment ago been a blank wall was now a paneled door.

Pierard blinked several times and shook his head. Then he pinched himself, but he wasn’t dreaming. Pierard rubbed his chin as he pondered the strange event. He knew the attic had only one door, and that was for entering and exiting. There were no neighboring houses connecting this one.

Odd, Pierard thought. ''Could this really be the Secret Room I was looking for so long? If it is, then I wonder if this key had something to do with it appearing.'' Cautiously, he walked over and stuck the key into the lock. It turned with a sharp click.

The door swung open, revealing a brightly lit hallway. For a moment, Pierard looked down the passage that lay before him. Then he stepped confidently over the threshold. 