Those upstanding royalty, citizens, animals, and demons holding papers (this way)
While the second said:
All the rest of you good-for-nothing undocumented scoundrels (this way)
No one else was visible for miles, but the roped lines threaded their way over the ground in front of the cave. Who’d put them there? And who was here to check which way I went? But my question was answered as the princes headed toward the right side, and a disembodied voice barked, “This line is for those with papers only!”
Lal and Neel fished inside their pockets and pulled out papers, which they waved around in front of them. Then Neel reached over to each horse’s saddlebag and pulled out what must have been the horses’ official papers.
I took a big breath and headed all by myself toward the left-hand line, the one for “undocumented scoundrels.”
“This place could use some immigration reform,” I grumbled.
“We’ll meet you on the other side, Just Kiran!” Lal called with a nervous smile. “No matter what happens, answer honestly, and do not be afraid.”
Neel gave me a hard look. “And if that doesn’t work, for the Goddess’s sake, run like crazy!”
For a few minutes, we threaded our way through our individual lines. It was slow going. The ropes herded you this way and that—like the lines in an airport—so you couldn’t walk straight but had to keep turning left, right, left, right.
At each corner, there was another ridiculous sign. The first read:
Drink all your liquids. Take off your shoes. Hop on one foot.
I looked over at Lal and Neel, and saw that they were hopping away, curly toed shoes in hand. I slipped off my combat boots and did the same. Until I came to the second sign.
No drinking of liquids. No bare feet. And unless you can provide evidence of being part toad, kangaroo, or jumping juju beast, stop hopping!
I put my boots back on and kept walking, until I came to the third sign.
All bows and arrows, knives, whips, maces, clubs, swords, and magic wands must pass through the X-ray machine. No nunchakus, poisonous darts, or firearms permitted.
And then:
P.S. If your arms shoot fire, that’s okay. But you will be liable for anything or anyone you accidentally set on fire. And you must provide your own fire extinguisher. If you do not have your own fire extinguisher, one will not be provided for you.
Miranda rights for people with fire-shooting arms. Now I’d seen everything.
Up until this point, I’d been able to see Lal, Neel, and the horses turning this way and that in their own line. Now they disappeared behind a huge boulder, probably to have their weapons X-rayed. My heart sank to see the last flick of Snowy’s tail.
I realized I must be getting closer to the guard’s station, because the next sign read:
Do not sneeze, cough, snot, or drool on the transit officer. If you must, use conveniently located spittoons for the appropriate deposition of your bodily fluids.
And then, in smaller letters:
A spittoon is a spit-bucket, you illiterate swine.
I remembered being covered in the rakkhosh’s reeking snot. I looked around for a spittoon, but didn’t see one. I continued walking until I saw the next sign.
Any rakkhosh, khokkosh, magical beast, or half human caught eating a spittoon will be prosecuted. Any human caught eating one will become very ill. And probably die.
(Stop eating the transit spittoons, we know who you are.)
The line came to an end a few feet away from the entrance of the cave. In front of me was a podium—the kind of stand Principal Chen used during auditorium assemblies at school. On it was a teeny tiny bell and a sign that read:
Ring here for transit officer. Be not afraid. (If you can help it.)
I looked around the deserted hilltop and down into the rocky valley. I wasn’t anywhere near Alexander Hamilton Middle School or Parsippany anymore. I felt very small and very far away from anything I knew. What I would give to see a familiar face. Even giggly-mean Jovi’s.
The wind shrieked around me, lifting my hair with jagged fingers. I shuddered.
There was nowhere to go but forward. I had to get to my parents before they got sucked into some alternate dimension or black hole or spoiled spell or whatever. I couldn’t—wouldn’t—even imagine the alternative. As weird as they were, they were my weirdos, and nothing in the universe could ever be right without them.
With a courage that came from somewhere deep but still unfamiliar, I picked up the petite bell with two fingers. Then I shook it.
I didn’t hear anything, so I shook it again. It wasn’t until the third shake that a deafening gong-like noise from the bell startled me into almost dropping it.
In a few seconds, the ground beneath me began to shake. And then the most horrible-looking creature emerged from the darkness of the cave. I sucked in my breath.
The transit officer wasn’t as tall as the rakkhosh had been and looked nothing like that hairy, warty demon. Instead, it had a face like a cross between a lion and a rooster. On its head were a ginormous crown and three curved horns. Beneath its googly eyes and hooked nose was a toothy mouth. I took in the giraffe’s neck, the man’s arms and chest, the porcupine’s quill-filled tail. And I saw the spike-covered club that the creature dragged behind it on the ground. I swallowed hard. Then it … smiled at me? *double gulp*
The beast shouted:
“Fear not, fear not, fear not! You won’t be maimed or shot!
Truth be told I can’t hold my own against one so strong, I’m a bag of bones!
Sharp horns have I, but I use them not, my joints are old, my muscles shot.
I have a club with spiky ends, but I won’t hit you, my dearest friend!
Come closer, chum, into my cave. You’re tasty, young, and far too brave!
Are you afraid? Are you insane? Do you want me all your blood to drain?
Myself and I and my nine boys, we’ll grab your legs like two stick toys.
You’re such a doll, you’re such a dear, we’ll eat you up if you have such fears!”
It took a forcible effort to shut my mouth, which had dropped stupidly open during the officer’s speech. I couldn’t think of anything to say. The creature’s words and expression seemed—if not pleasant—at least not actively harmful. On the other hand, I’d rather not meet the transit officer’s nine mini-mes, and having my blood drained as a punishment for being afraid didn’t seem like an ideal plan either.
“Um … are you the transit officer?” I finally asked.
“No papers, eh? That’s such a shame.” The creature’s eyes went buggy. “Well then, we’ll have to play a game.”
“What kind of game?” I wondered if the princes were through their checkpoint yet. Would they rescue me if the game this overgrown chicken was thinking about involved having me for lunch?
“Answer these, my pretty, please!” The officer clucked. “What’s black and white and—”
Really? Was this a joke?
“And read all over?” I finished. “A newspaper!” My fifth-grade teacher Mrs. Ury had actually taught me that one—red and read were homophones—when you spoke them aloud they sounded the same and that was the root of the joke.
The creature seemed so sad, I actually felt sorry for it. “Try another one,” I encouraged.