Unhinged (Splintered, #2)(89)
One side makes you taller, the other side shorter.
It’s from the scene in Lewis Carroll’s tale when Alice complains to the caterpillar that she wishes to be taller and he suggests she eat the mushroom to grow but leaves her without telling which side does what.
I crumple the piece of paper, frustrated that everything always has to be so difficult.
“Where are the tickets?” I vent to no one in particular. “He said everything we need is here.”
A large monarch butterfly flitters over on a breeze and lands on my shoulder. One flapping wing tickles my neck as she whispers: The ticket is your size, silly. You could never fit on the train as you are.
I stare at the bulbous-eyed insect.
“Don’t try the candy,” Jeb says, making me turn back to him. “It’s stale.” He’s chewing something.
“Jeb!” I grab the mushroom pinched between his finger and thumb. Half of its cap has been bitten off, leaving only the speckled side. “Spit it out!” In my haste to get closer to him, I knock all of the mushrooms out of his palm. They scatter on the ground.
He swallows and meets my gaze. Before I can react, he starts to shrink and doesn’t stop until he’s the size of a small beetle—the similarity enhanced by the tiny backpack on his shoulders.
That’s all it takes to bust his dream trance. He rolls into a fetal position and screams. Even as tiny as he is, the sound scrapes through me like claws. I crouch to scoop him up, but the butterfly swoops in and snatches him with her legs. She hovers just out of my reach, at eye level.
“Hey, give him back!” I jump to my feet but refrain from swatting her. The backpack tumbles off him and hits the ground. If Jeb falls from that height, it could kill him.
The monarch gracefully dances in midair and whispers: Your boy makes a far better flower than you.
“Huh?” I ask.
Any wise flower knows: Stretch for the sunlight and shrink from the shadows.
And then she’s off toward the bridge with my groaning boyfriend in tow.
In full panic mode, I’m about take to the sky and risk being seen by the entire village, when everything starts to make sense: The ticket is our size; to get on the train, we have to be small. That’s what the mushrooms are for. According to the butterfly’s riddle and Jeb’s transformation, the side that faces the sun and becomes freckled will make you grow, and the side that faces the shadows and is smooth will shrink you.
I shove all the remaining mushrooms in my jeans pocket except one. I’ve done this before, but with a bottle that said Drink Me. My clothes and everything touching me shrank, just like Jeb’s did.
I nibble off half of the mushroom’s cap, taking care not to ingest any of the speckled side. My first taste is sweet, like paper soaked in sugar water; then a fizzy sensation leaves my tongue numb.
My muscles contract, my bones narrow, and my skin and cartilage tighten to hold everything together. The surroundings shoot up around me, flowers becoming the size of trees, and the trees the size of skyscrapers. Tall fronds of grass bend across me. It’s like I’m in a jungle.
As soon as my metamorphosis is complete, I shake off the nausea, swing the backpack over one shoulder, and use my wings like I’ve been itching to for months. I clench my shoulders and arch my spine, my muscles falling into a rhythm with almost no effort. Just like skateboarding, it feels natural.
My hair slaps around my face. Up, up, up, through the strands of grass and looming flowers until my boots skim the tops of the giant trees. The height is exhilarating, and I’m little enough that no one can see me from the village.
I catch up to the butterfly. Jeb moans and droops in her hold. As if choreographed, we descend on a current of air. I follow her into a crack in the brick foundation of the iron bridge. We maneuver through the hole and burst out into a deserted elevator passageway where arriving train passengers used to wait for rides up to the village. The muffled sounds of cars and people overhead drift in through vents. I hover in midair next to the butterfly, keeping Jeb in my sight.
The tunnel is lit with moving chandeliers, rolling like miniature Ferris wheels across the curved, stone ceiling. As they come closer, I realize they’re actually clusters of lightning bugs, harnessed together. Each rotation illuminates dingy tiled walls and faded advertising from the 1950s. The posters are giant compared to me—as big as buildings.
The train, on the other hand, is just the right size, and it’s now obvious what Morpheus meant about it not being a form of transport. In a shadowy corner, a rusted tin train set is tucked within a pile of toys—some wooden blocks, a pinwheel, some jigsaw puzzle pieces, and a few rubber jacks. The playthings were either forgotten or abandoned by children waiting with their parents at the elevator decades ago. A large sign hangs over the pile. The words LOST AND FOUND have been marked out and replaced by the phrase TRAIN OF THOUGHT.
Boxcars, flatcars, and passenger cars connect to an engine and caboose, perfectly scaled to our current size. Through the shadows, I can barely make out the title Memory’s Mystic Band painted in black letters across the red engine.
The butterfly deposits Jeb next to one of the passenger cars. I hurry after her, trying to remember how to land. The car door opens. Something that looks like a walking rug wearing a black conductor hat steps out and drags Jeb in. I skim the dirt with my boots to slow my momentum, dropping the backpack. I’m unable to thank the butterfly as she leaves, too busy keeping my balance.