Enchanted Globe

By Sean Faircloth

Nearing his twelfth birthday, Brendan, together with his younger brother Ryan and friend Gabrielle, discovers a mysterious golden object in the Maine woods. To their amazement a ghostly voice from within entreats them to save the world from McGrab, a horrifying creature who wishes to conquer the planet. Before they know it, the three children cut through the earth's crust in a magical sphere as they try to stop McGrab. Confident of victory, McGrab toys with his adversaries, leaving clues about what they must seek across the globe in order to stop him. Traveling from continent to continent amid hair-raising adventures and thrilling escapes, the children solve his cryptic puzzles. Along the way, they discover surreal places and stunning geography: a pink lake, a building capped with giant eggs, and an island that arises in a single day. Armed with knowledge about the world and themselves that they've gained in their wild chase, the children return home to face McGrab in a decisive battle in which the fate of the world hangs in the balance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pitchstone Publishing
• Release date: Dec 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781634311021

Book preview

Woods"

CHAPTER ONE

DOUBLE PYRAMIDS

Brendan’s birthday party is next week, says Ryan, scooping a pile of leaves. He’ll be twelve.

That’s old. Gonna have a party at your house? Will there be cake? asks Gabrielle. Behind them stands a yellow house, visible between the trees of this backyard forest.

It’ll be at the Arcade in Hermon.

Why not Great Skates like last year?

Ryan whispers, It closed. He gathers a swarm of autumn leaves. Now quiet. He’ll hear.

Brendan shouts, What’re you guys doing? Bring the tools from the garage. Same place as the bike helmets!

Leaves rustle as they waddle forward. Too much noise and they will fail to ambush Brendan, who’s whacking at something behind some trees, deeper in the woods. The forest—stretching from the boys’ house to Gab’s house and way, way back to Dr. Baron’s house—is mostly evergreen. Fallen leaves are not common in these woods, even at Halloween, much less two weeks before.

Ryan and Gabrielle don’t get within ten yards of him, before Brendan, without turning, says, Don’t even try it. I can hear you so easy.

Undaunted, Gabrielle charges with a high-pitched scream. She sprints, a scatter of leaves, a stream of fall orange, yellow, and red trails behind her.

A splash of pathetic leaves land on Brendan’s blond head.

He doesn’t lose focus on his task, smashing a trowel into a log. This can be used as a tomahawk. See?

Not a tomahawk, says Ryan, who has forgotten the leaf ambush. A laser—he continues, assuming a sinister voice—for an enemy space shuttle.

That’s stupid, says his older brother. This trowel doesn’t look like any laser I’ve ever seen. Hey! I thought you were getting more tools. Go get ‘em. Now.

How about we play Anna, Kristoff, and Olaf? asks Gabrielle.

How about you get your own tools and give me that trowel. I had it first, Ryan says to Brendan. The battle is on.

Give it back now, or I’ll smash this trowel on yer head.

Grunting in response, Ryan pulls hard on the business end of the trowel.

Gabrielle examines her purple fingernail polish. She’s witnessed this scene many times. You boys are so … tedious. She yawns like a weary married lady. Gab has discussed marriage with both brothers, but has not made a final selection.

Ryan plants his foot against a tree trunk and tugs. Brendan gives a wicked yank, stumbles back against a log, trips, rolls head over heels, and lands hard in a hollowed out ditch between two tree stumps. Just underneath the dull thud of his body hitting hard earth, a distinct metallic clang hangs in the air.

Brendan, stunned, starts to sit up as he shakes his dirt-smudged head.

You hurt my fingers! squeals the nonbleeding Ryan.

Quiet, Gabrielle says, You hear something? A `ping’ or something?

Yeah, Brendan must have rung his bell.

I’m serious, Gabrielle retorts.

I heard it too, Brendan responds, his hair flopping as he regains composure, shaking his head.

He turns, facing where he and the ground met. Grabbing the trowel, Brendan scrapes, digs, scrapes again, and finds—nothing. The others join in. Then behind some dried-up ferns—scrape, scrape. Brendan smacks the trowel down. Ping! Clear as the dinner bell at Grandpa’s cabin.

Whoa, say Ryan and Gabrielle.

Whatever it is, it’s mine, says Brendan. I found it first!

Not if it’s my helicopter. That’s mine! Grandma got it for my birthday, not yours.

Brendan furiously digs around the edges of the helicopter? Old train track? No. Old toolbox? Brendan had hidden an entire toolbox in the forest, far from annoying parents. Then he couldn’t remember where he’d buried it.

Clang! Clong! Clang! A strange sound, very … hollow.

Gabrielle kneels over the hole to assist. Ryan follows. A strange shape emerges—maybe a triangle shape? It’s covered by stubborn dirt.

The dirt’s caked on, says Ryan.

Brendan starts scraping it with the trowel.

No, says Gabrielle. Don’t scratch it. What if it’s valuable?

She pulls at the sleeve of her purple sweater to cover her hand and rubs.

It’s not working, says Gabrielle, frustrated. She spits on the sweater and rubs even harder to little effect.

Gross, Brendan says.

A glint of late afternoon sun weaves through the trees, sparkling on an angled side of the object. It glimmers …

Gold! shouts Ryan.

Brendan and Ryan look at one another, jaws dropped, as Gabrielle’s hands move more excitedly.

Well come on, help!

Ryan and Brendan pull down their own sleeves and spit on them, jumping in. They clean around the sides, sides shaped like—what?

It looks like the top of a pyramid, exclaims Gabrielle.

Look at these weird marks, Ryan says, eyeing strange symbols etched on the gold surface.

Gabrielle and Ryan begin digging wildly with their hands to expose more of the object.

Brendan tries to pull it out. The thing won’t budge.

Try the trowel, says Gabrielle.

Brendan grabs the trowel. He pushes it through the dirt and manages to catch a corner of the pyramid and presses down. Still no movement.

The other two put their hands on his. They push with all their might—no luck.

This thing buried in cement?! exclaims Ryan.

Stop. I have an idea, says Brendan. Clear away a sec. Ryan and Gabrielle step back as Brendan stands.

He takes a deep breath, jumps high and lands hard with his full seventy-five pounds on the trowel handle and—ker-pling!—The pyramid shoots up, up, straight up, above their heads … like a pop fly on a summer day. The pyramid—really two pyramids joined at their bases creating a four-sided diamond shape—glimmers in the light.

Ryan and Gabrielle look up—silent, scared. Brendan moves to catch the descending golden pyramids when they exclaim in unison: Jeezum crow! The doubled-sided pyramid doesn’t fall. It floats just out of reach—spinning, glimmering, humming—a metallic buzz.

It glows golden bright—shining off their faces.

Ryan whispers, It’s spinning in two directions at once. Sure enough, the bottom upside-down pyramid spins left, while the top right-side-up pyramid spins right, even though both sides are connected.

Jeezum crow! they say again, but this time in a whisper, the solemn whisper of fear, fascination, wonder. The humming sound grows louder, and Ryan and Gabrielle turn to run.

Brendan says, Wait! His voice sounds much deeper than it ever had. Then he realizes what Ryan and Gabrielle already know. The spinning double-pyramid had said "Wait’’ at the exact same moment Brendan had. The children stand frozen—terrified.

A rich, yet nasal, male voice vibrates from the spinning diamond: "What? Children? My contacts are—children! No! No! Egad, no! A mistake, a foul-up, a jumble-de-bumble. Who are these children? First human contact in ages, and it’s the wrong humans. Groaning, Things never go right! then sighing. Children, the date! What is today’s date?" says the voice, like some annoyed teacher.

All three stutter for an answer. Finally, Gabrielle blurts, It’s October 19. Mrs. Smith always puts the date on the board.

A most clever woman. Good. At least something has gone right. There’s time yet. Still, this will be difficult, ever so difficult. Less than a month to meet my contact and stop catastrophe. October 19. Quick, to the Standpipe and then the University of Maine.

The Standpipe? The water tower on the top of the hill? asks Brendan pointing.

Yes, exactly that. We must hurry! Perfect. October 19, 1963. I’ve done it! says the voice in the spinning pyramids.

Brendan points out, Uh, it’s not 1963, it’s 2017.

Gasping, as if punched in the stomach, Noooo, he wails. "How can it happen? How can it happen? ‘What can go wrong, will.’ Murphy’s law. Pah! It’s my name, my law, that’s the problem—Eratosthenes: ‘What can’t go wrong, will.’ Aarrggghhh! 2017. Stranded in the wrong time, so much history under the bridge. The rules don’t allow me another contact. I’m stuck with these—great Zeus!—these munchkins."

Ryan, offended, forgets his fear, and squats holding his knees, extending his lower lip, eyes trained on the spinning diamond above. You’re not being one bit polite, Mr.—what’s your name, Erato—? Erat—?

Let’s get out of here, cries Gabrielle from behind a slim pine tree.

Wait, please don’t go. Eratosthenes pleads, I’ve been asleep so long. It’s so confusing. His voice trembles. If I cry, I might corrode my pyramids, and if my pyramids jam, I shall never arrive, never ever arrive at the emerald green field covered with mighty trees, flowers, and luscious fruit.

Ryan thinks a moment. This Era, Erat—this Erat seems sad.

Eratosthenes weeps aloud, 2017. That’s—how long? he shudders, gasps, 2210 years. Oh, I’ve paid! Haven’t I paid? Erat’s whimper has the dusty, rusty sound of an old man.

Brendan turns to the others. Wait. We should help him.

Ryan and Gabrielle nod meekly, uncertain.

What’s the problem? asks Brendan.

The problem? The problem? A mere fifty-four years, that’s the problem. I was supposed to make contact fifty-four years ago. True, fifty-four years is no time at all. We’re talking big picture here—one little fraction of a mistake and, whammo! As his voice gets louder it echoes from the pyramids, The fate of the world—perhaps the universe—is indeed in jeopardy, down the drain, kaput! That’s all. Where on earth am I? The wrong contacts. The wrong place, perhaps. Don’t tell me I’m in Tasmania or Gibraltar or, worse, Kansas again. Tell me this is Maine. Bangor, Maine, near the air base?

Brendan, who loves helicopters, nods. The airport’s that way, he says, pointing west past Dr. Baron’s house.

Well. Hmm. One out of three isn’t—well, face it, it’s simply disastrous. There’s no way around it. Erat sinks to a lower hover.

You should stop sniffling, Gabrielle says, or you’ll get all gunked up in there! You might rust. She tries to put a comforting arm around Erat, but the spinning pyramids whack her finger. Ow!

You need a sleeve to wipe your nose on? asks Ryan.

No, no, dignity, dignity, that’s my calling card. Just still waking up from my long slumber, that’s all. I must focus, read, think, rejuvenate. Will someone hold me a moment? I must devote my powers to the library. Erat ceases spinning and plops into Gabrielle’s arms, fitting like a large baby. His golden metal is warm to the touch, but not hot. Ancient writing is carved on each panel of the pyramids, some symbols look like writing from the pharaoh’s time. Another side has letters Gab recognizes mixed with other letters that make no sense.

For a moment Erat is quiet but for a pulsing hum—like the echoing purr of a robotic cat.

Brendan, as if examining a frog at his grandfather’s lake, gently pokes at Erat.

That tickles, snorts Erat, Please. I’m trying to read.

You have a book in there? asks Gabrielle, peering into one of many pinpoint holes forming curlicue designs on the sides of the golden pyramids.

A moment please—you slow me down. The purring hum grows louder.

Done, says Erat, his voice stronger, more certain.

What book did you read? asks Ryan.

All of them, he says with a casual yawn.

They all respond at once—Huh?

Well, all of the ones that have been written during my latest nap.

That thing is way too small for so many books, says Brendan.

It doesn’t weigh hardly anything, says Gabrielle. Erat’s diamond-shaped golden container is surprisingly light, almost hollow.

You read that fast? asks Ryan.

I overshot a mere fifty-four years—a strange, horrible, inspiring, interesting fifty-four years—not that the previous couple of thousand turned out perfectly either, now did they?

What—what’s inside that? Brendan takes the double pyramid from Gabrielle, shaking it like a cup full of Yahtzee dice.

Wait, says Ryan, You might hurt him.

No, no harm done. As for what’s inside, says Erat. Not much. A trifle. Just my soul. I travel light. And given the mess of history that I was charged with preventing, we need no extra weight.

A sole? asks Ryan, as he takes the can and holds it to the light peeking through the evergreen trees. Like on a shoe?

No, like a spirit, goof, answers Brendan.

Gabrielle gasps, Erat, you’re a ghost?!

Technically, a wandering spirit, but no matter. Erat rises and spins like a gyroscope finding balance. What does matter? My mission—now, our mission, I’m afraid—is critical to saving humanity.

Cool, says Brendan, "A mission, huh? Like Guardians of the Galaxy?"

Hmm. If you like, a mission to the ends of the earth, a quest to protect the world from deepest, darkest evil.

We don’t have guns and stuff, says Brendan. How can we stop deepest, darkest evil? And you aren’t much of a superhero. You have no guns, no swords—no … body, and, well, you cry.

Ah, but I’m the best help you can have on this mission. I am— Erat pauses for effect —a librarian!

The children stare blankly. Erat spins, buzzing impatiently as if awaiting applause.

Librarian? You mean like Mrs. McQuarrie at school? Gabrielle asks. Ryan, Gabrielle, and Brendan roll their eyes, laughing. Gabrielle still incredulous: Imagine Mrs. McQuarrie, as a superhero? No way!

"Why such surprise? Knowledge is power. Vast stores of information at the ready!"

Ryan blurts: Mrs. McQuarrie? A superhero? No way! Yet Ryan instinctively trusts this bizarre librarian.

You will understand soon enough, Erat says. The object rises, floating and humming again. Into the magma-impervious anti-gravity aero-amphibious vehicle. A strange floating bubble, a gel, gurgles from one of many small holes in Erat’s pyramid. At first small like a gumball, it expands to the size of a bowling ball—then bigger still. The gel, tinted slightly golden, forms into a ball the size of a Mini Cooper, then hardens.

Hop in, says Erat. A hatch materializes, then pops open.

Jeezum! says Brendan, following Erat into the sphere. Cool. Inside are three clear plastic seats that float just above the curved floor of the floating ball.

Gabrielle follows slowly, asking, Any food in here?

Ryan steps into the bubble. Ryan, who has made up ghost stories so filled with color and sound that he often scares himself, takes a breath and turns to step out. Maybe a nice safe meal from Mom? The hatch melds shut before him, sealing them in.

It’s like a gerbil ball, says Ryan, except a gerbil ball is gerbil size.

Gerbil balls don’t float in the air, says Brendan, impressed, slamming his hands on the clear armrests.

They don’t spin around you when a poor gerbil like me is just sitting doing nothing, says Gab nervously. Their chairs stay motionless as the ball rotates slowly around them.

Where are we going? asks Ryan.

Where all things mysterious begin. The Geyser—Strokkur, the first geyser.

You mean hot shooting water? asks Gabrielle.

But where is it? insists Ryan.

In misty old Viking Lands.

How do we get there? Where is the control panel for this ship? asks Brendan. Smiling, eagerly fascinated, he sees no steering wheel, no joystick, no brightly colored knobs or buttons.

"Control panel? I am the control panel, answers Erat. How do we get to Viking lands? Why, directly, of course."

Before they can grimace, the ball, now spinning furiously, cuts into the earth like a fork through mashed potatoes. Pressed hard back in their seats, they shoot deep underground, the gerbil-ball sphere spinning around them in their clear chairs. Buzzing first through dirt and rock, then crust and mantle—ever deeper into the planet—they finally join a subterranean river of molten rock.

Is that actual lava?! inquires Brendan—loving it.

No, replies Erat.

Thank God, blurts out Ryan. I was freaked out.

It’s magma, Erat continues. It won’t be called lava until it reaches the surface.

Jeezum … whispers Gabrielle.

The only thing we have to fear is—well, lots of things actually, but not this vehicle, says Erat to his bug-eyed passengers. You’ll have much to fear soon enough, but this—how might you say it?—‘hot rod’—is entirely safe.

A hot rod sounds old-fashioned, says Gabrielle.

My reading told me it was a perfectly serviceable term, says Erat.

Brendan and Ryan are unable to speak. They had imagined perilous journeys over hot lava so many times—on the playground at school, in the park, jumping over the yellow carpet in Mom’s piano room where they weren’t supposed to be in the first place. Now they are jetting through an actual bubbling river of molten rock.

A piece of the earth’s crust ricochets off the sphere with a dull thud. They duck, faces flushed from fear—not heat.

No heat comes through the round impervious walls. Light, radiating from the sphere, brightens the magma burbling by. Timidly, Brendan reaches toward the wall of the sphere but feels a strange tingling before he touches it and withdraws his hand.

Things whip by so fast it’s hard to focus, but, safe within the sphere, it looks as if they are passing through tomato soup.

While I have a moment, says Erat, as if he travels through the earth every day, I’ll begin my file on each of you. I’ve always kept most meticulous records. Erat buzzes very near Gabrielle, whose whole head tingles with the same feeling as a foot gone to sleep.

Notes. Gabrielle Miller: Heather Road, Bangor, Maine, USA. Skin: brown. Hair: very dark brown curls. Eyes: brown. Mind: compassionate. Strong feelings for: Disney videos, learning French, chopped dates, ice cream, her mother’s fashion magazines, horses, and purple clothes. Well, that’s a start.

Erat zooms to within an inch of Ryan while Gab rubs her head.

Ryan O’Flanagan. Hair: brown. Eyes: brown almond-shaped Brain: crammed with information regarding the Beatles, Minecraft, Xbox, story ideas, and soccer. Diet: eats most foods, but vomits at will any food he prefers not to be served again. Fears: ghosts.

Wow, that felt like a dream while you’re awake, says Ryan.

Brendan O’Flanagan. Hair: blond. Eyes: brown. Diet: yogurt, kiwi fruit, bright orange tortilla chips. Preferences: building things, making stone tools like a caveman, kayaking, Beethoven’s Ninth, tales of space flight. His theme song: ‘Surfin’ Bird.’ Fears: not ghosts generally, but banshees, one of which he saw by the trash compactor in his garage.

Erat says, I know what you mean about banshees. I faced the Wild Banshee of Kilkenny once and—. The sphere jolts suddenly. Hold on to your hats. Prepare to surface.

The ship vibrates violently, a space capsule returning to Earth, but rumbling not from outside in, but inside out. They crash through granite, dirt—then rocket into a streaming jet of water, and blast from the earth like a cannonball straight up into the sky, bobbing atop the jet of water. They wobble about as if on a rubbery pogo stick.

Bouncing atop a geyser, says Erat. A thoroughly odd sensation, eh?

Around them are ice-capped mountains, below a misty land with deep-green fields scattered with rocks. There is an old arched stone bridge under which Ryan imagines a troll crouching, ready to pounce.

Did we go back in time? asks Brendan, half expecting to see a knight.

CHAPTER TWO

HARALD AND THE PINK LAKE

To go back in time—and change what happens! Would that it were so, says Erat, as they remain perched in the air atop the geyser. "There are so many things I would like to take back. To be even a thousand years younger. No, scratch that, let’s make that two thousand