The Mapmaker and the Ghost(17)

“Spitbubble…,” Brains said quickly. Birch thought he could detect a tiny note of anxiety in his voice. “Look what Toe Jam got today.”

Spitbubble waited a few moments before answering, letting the silence crackle with anticipation. “Nice,” he finally said. “I’ll work on this. Everything set for tomorrow?”

“All set, Spitbubble,” came Snotshot’s reply.

“Good,” the voice thundered.

There was a pause. Finally Brains spoke. “Um, we do have a little … situation.”

“Situation?”

“Yes, we caught an intruder today.”

Oh no, Birch thought. This is not good. Not good.

“An intruder in the cavern?” Spitbubble asked.

“No, in the woods,” Brains said.

“But we think he may have heard part of tomorrow’s plan. That’s why I suggested we bring him here and let you decide what to do with him,” Snotshot interjected.

“I see.”

There was another moment of silence.

“Well, take me to him then,” came Spitbubble’s voice.

Birch heard a large shuffle and then the absolutely terrifying sound of a few pairs of sneakers moving down the long hallway that would eventually lead to his pounding heart.





12

ENTER SPITBUBBLE


The leading footsteps were slow and deliberate, as if they had all the time in the world. With every one, Birch felt his inner terror meter level up. He clenched his eyes shut, wishing that the peanut butter concoction from that morning had been real and that, instead of being about to meet the supervillain he was sure would destroy him, he was safe in his bed with a severe stomachache. If only adults had told him the truth about why he should never lie, about the terrifying groups of kids that lived in the forest just waiting to kidnap you should you ever put a toe out of line.

Though his eyes were closed, Birch could feel his lids darken as a shadow blocked out the light coming from the stairs. This was it.

There was only one thing Birch could do, and that was to not cry. Goldenrod wouldn’t cry and neither should he—no matter what they did to him.

He peeled open his lids, blinking as he laid eyes on the boy for the first time.

He was a boy, although clearly older than the rest of the kids. He was extremely skinny, so much so that even his shadow was only a sliver on the ground of Birch’s cell. He was tall, too, and the shadow seemed to creep up the walls to the ceiling. The flashlight behind Birch’s head illuminated his face, and Birch could make out messy jet-black hair atop a scrawny face with a pointed nose and patchy stubble. His eyes were as black as his hair.

“Leave us,” the deep voice said, seeming to come from somewhere beyond the large Adam’s apple jutting out of the boy’s bony neck.

Birch saw Lint step away from the door and heard his and the others’ footsteps as they climbed back up the stairs.

The boy leaned against the doorway and folded his arms. He smiled at Birch, clearly cherishing his ability to stir up fear.

“So,” the boy finally said. “My friends tell me you’ve been spying.”

Birch gulped. He opened his mouth to speak but then, worried that talking would only cause a flood of tears, shut his mouth again and resorted to shaking his head.

“Oh, so you weren’t spying?” Birch shook his head again.

“Then what exactly were you doing in the middle of my forest?” Spitbubble’s voice was extremely level. If Birch had just heard it under normal circumstances, he probably would have thought it to be the smooth sounds of a TV announcer, the one that told him batteries weren’t included.

“Well?” Spitbubble said again, this time cocking his head and fixating his coal-black glare straight into Birch’s eyes.

There was no way around it. Birch was going to have to talk.

“I … I wasn’t spying. I was just … playing?” Birch squeaked, thinking how small and insignificant his voice sounded next to Spitbubble’s.

“Playing? And where are your parents?”

“At home.”

“And they just let their five-year-old come and play in the forest. Completely unsupervised? Don’t they know what a dangerous world this is?”

Birch fumbled with the straps on his purple-and-gold backpack. For some reason, this gave him the strength to go on. “Well, they didn’t exactly let me. I … I snuck out.”

“Oh, really?” Spitbubble looked amused now.

Feeling a tiny bit braver, Birch continued, “I’m eight, by the way.”

“You’re a little scrawny for eight. But I guess you are a bit of a rebel, huh?” Spitbubble smirked.

Birch didn’t respond but continued to move his fingers up and around the bumpy backpack straps.

“Okay, Tiny. So what did you hear when you were in the forest?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

Birch shook his head.

“You didn’t hear the kids talking about, oh, say, some sort of plan?”

Birch shook his head again.

“Nothing?” Spitbubble asked again.

Birch shook his head a little harder.

“You swear?”

Birch nodded. He was now clenching the plastic ring of his backpack very tightly.