The Wishbreaker Page 8

  “Interesting . . .” I mused as the information flooded my brain. “Chasm made a wish against us. He must know we’re going to try to stop him eventually, and his wish was meant to slow us down.”

  “What was it?” Jathon asked.

  “He wished that current Wishmakers wouldn’t be able to wish for any magical means of transportation,” I explained.

  “How are we supposed to get anywhere?” Jathon cried.

  “Sounds like we can still take cars, trains, buses, bicycles, airplanes, jets, subways, boats, horses . . .” Ridge said. “Basically any man-made, nonmagical methods of transportation.”

  “But nothing fast!” I said.

  “Aeroplanes be swift enough,” said Thackary. “Jathon, me boy, will wish for us to get tickets to Myrtle Beach. We can be there by dawn.”

  “Ugh,” muttered Jathon. “I guess that’s our best option.” He turned to Vale. “I wish we all had plane tickets to Myrtle Beach.”

  “If you want tickets,” said Vale, “then every time someone says your name, you have to laugh. For the rest of the week.”

  Oh, great. That meant hiccups for me.

  Jathon nodded. “All right. Bazang.”

  Instantly, airline tickets appeared in everyone’s hands. I glanced down, a little disappointed to see that mine wasn’t first-class.

  “Flight leaves in an hour,” said Vale.

  “Yar, we’ll have to do a bit of speeding on the roads and a bit of wishing to get through security lines,” Thackary said with a smile, as though the idea of Jathon taking extra consequences pleased him.

  “Hurry out to the car,” said Ms. Gomez. “I need just a minute to talk to Ace.”

  “Come along, Jathon, me boy,” said Thackary.

  At the sound of his name, Jathon laughed. I hiccuped. And then they were gone. I turned nervously to Ms. Gomez, feeling like I’d been sent to the principal’s office.

  “I want to talk to you about your quest,” she began.

  I shook my head. “We’ve been over this. There’s nothing you can say to convince me that my quest is worthwhile.”

  “I made a phone call while you were gone,” said Ms. Gomez. “I learned something very interesting about Samuel Sylvester Stansworth.”

  “What?” I said flatly. “He likes his peanut butter creamy?”

  “He was a Wishmaker,” Ms. Gomez said. “But Samuel Sylvester Stansworth disappeared three years ago, on the morning of July twenty-first.”

  I felt my body start to tingle with shock. Three years ago . . . That was exactly when I showed up in a hospital, the ace of hearts card stuffed in my pocket.

  Mint chocolate chip!

  Was I Samuel Sylvester Stansworth?!

  Chapter 10

  “Tell me more.” I moved closer to Ms. Gomez. “Where is he from? Does he have a family?”

  Tina’s mom waved a hand at me. “I thought you weren’t interested in your quest.” She was turning my words against me.

  “Well, I am now!” I shouted. Smoke suddenly came curling out of my ears, reminding me to calm down. “What else did you learn?”

  “Nothing else,” she said. “But the person I called can give you more answers.”

  “Who?” There was a giddiness inside me.

  “He is called the Genieologist,” Ms. Gomez said. “He works at the Library of Wight and Wong.”

  “The Library of Right and Wrong?” Ridge said.

  “Wight and Wong,” she corrected. “My contact’s name is Eli Wong. After you went into the vault, I called him to ask if he’d ever heard of Samuel Sylvester Stansworth. He only told me a little, but he’ll share more information with you because it has to do with your quest.”

  “How does this Wong guy know so much?” Ridge asked.

  “It’s his responsibility,” said Ms. Gomez. “Like the Trinketer, the Genieologist is another position that has been passed down for generations. His job is to keep a record of all the Wishmakers and their genies. He also catalogs each quest, wishes made, consequences accepted, and whether the Wishmaker succeeded or failed. Once you get to Mr. Wong, you’ll need to tell him this password.” She paused to make sure we were listening. “It’s a nice day to shave a chipmunk.”

  “Technically, wouldn’t that be a passphrase?” Ridge said. “It’s more than one word.”

  “Fine,” she said. “It’s a passphrase.”

  “Where is this library?” I asked.

  “New York City,” she replied.

  I grabbed Ridge’s arm. “Let’s go!”

  “What about Myrtle Beach?” he asked. “The dagger?”

  “Oh, come on! All this time you’ve been telling me not to give up on my quest,” I said. “Now that I actually want to do it, you’re doubting me?”

  I decided not to say anything about my suspicions yet—that I might be the Stansworth kid we were supposed to be looking for. Something inside me was afraid that speaking it out loud would somehow make my hopes fall apart, leaving me extra-disappointed. I needed more information.

  “We’ll go to the Library of Wight and Wong,” I continued, “learn more about Samuel Sylvester Stansworth, and then meet up with everybody in South Carolina.”

  “I’ve got something that will help you,” Ms. Gomez said. “Follow me.”

  Ridge and I followed Ms. Gomez like ducklings over to a table. She picked up an old book and handed it to me.

  I read the title. “One Thousand and One Nights.”

  “That’s a long book,” Ridge said. “What do you think it’s about?”

  I glanced at the title again. “It’s probably about a thousand and one nights.”

  “Yeah, but do you think they win the war?” Ridge asked.

  “What war?”

  “I dunno.” He shrugged. “Whatever war the knights are fighting.”

  “Not those kind of knights,” I said, showing him the book title. “Nights. Like when the sun goes down.”

  “Well, that doesn’t sound nearly as cool.”

  “Technically, it sounds exactly the same,” I said. “That’s probably why you were confused.”

  “It’s a collection of folktales from the Middle East,” Ms. Gomez cut in. “Some call it Arabian Nights. Stories about Sinbad, Aladdin, genies . . .”

  “Oh, yeah!” I said. “I’ve heard those stories. Three wishes, magic lamp . . .”

  Ridge chuckled. “They were way off.”

  “Anyway,” said Ms. Gomez, “it doesn’t matter what the book is about. It’s a trinket.”

  I suddenly froze, holding the book carefully as though it might explode at any second.

  “What does it do?” Ridge asked.

  “It will transport you to the Library of Wight and Wong.”

  “Won’t Chasm’s wish stop us from using it?” I asked.

  Ms. Gomez shook her head. “His wish only stopped you from wishing for magical transportation. This trinket already existed.”

  She reached out and opened the book’s front cover. Glued inside was a little envelope with an open top. An index card was stuffed snuggly into the envelope, yellowed top poking out about an inch.

  “What is this? Some kind of bookmark?” I reached up to pull out the little card, but Ms. Gomez grabbed my hand in a viselike grip.

  “That is a checkout card,” she said.

  “Who glued it into the book?” I asked.

  She looked at me like I was ignorant. “The librarian. You use it to check out. Every library book has one.”

  “Not in the libraries I’ve been to,” I answered. “We just check out with a little scanner on the computer.”

  “How do you think people used to check out books?” Ms. Gomez asked. “They used that little card to write down your name. The librarian would stamp the due date and slip the checkout card into the envelope.”

  “Sounds like a lot of work when they could’ve just used a computer,” said Ridge.

  “Lemon custard,” Ms. Gomez muttered, taking a deep, steadying breath. “T
his is a very useful trinket. When you remove the checkout card, you will be transported to the Library of Wight and Wong. You can give the card to Mr. Wong and he’ll stamp it for you. Slide the card into the envelope again, and you’ll be transported back to the Trinketer. Me.”

  This was going to save us a lot of time! “Where did you get this?” I asked.

  “It was made by the Trinketer, three generations back,” Ms. Gomez said. “From time to time, it’s helpful to consult with the Genieologist’s records. He has a lot of information on quests, which means he knows about trinkets that may be lost or dormant. I keep the book now, but I haven’t seen Mr. Wong in years.”

  I studied the book in my hands. “What’s the consequence for using this?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she answered.

  “No, seriously,” I said. “If it’s going to be horrible for you, then we can find another way.”

  “Anytime you remove or replace the checkout card,” said Ms. Gomez, “I will be stuck talking like a barnyard animal for an hour.”

  “Which animal?” asked Ridge.

  “It changes each time,” she said. “It’s really not so bad. Just very inconvenient.”

  I nodded, my attention turning back to the book as I prepared to use the trinket.

  “One more thing,” said Ms. Gomez. “Mr. Wong is very old, and he’s got a few lingering consequences of his own. Whatever you do, don’t say the word meanwhile around him.”

  “Meanwhile?” I said.

  “Don’t say it,” she warned. “And don’t lose the book or the checkout card, or you’ll have to find another way to meet up with us.” Ms. Gomez pointed at Ridge. “The book will only teleport the person holding it. So you’ll get a nasty tether snap if Ridge isn’t in his jar for transport.”

  Ridge did a little shiver and started some preemptive scratching. I pulled the peanut butter jar from the backpack beside the couch and gave the command. “Ridge, get into the jar.”

  He vanished, a wisp of smoke trailing into the peanut butter container. I stowed Ridge in the water bottle pocket and shouldered the backpack.

  “Good luck,” Ms. Gomez said. “I hope you find the answers you’re looking for.”

  “We’ll see you at the beach.” I grasped the tip of the checkout card and pulled it out of the little envelope.

  I suddenly felt very flat and two-dimensional. Some unseen force folded me up like a piece of paper and I seemed to drop into the very book I was holding. I heard Ms. Gomez call out, but her voice sounded like a distant “baaaaaa!”

  Then it was dark. The only sound was the whirring of pages, like someone was thumbing through a giant book, of which I was a part. Then it was evening and I unfolded, standing in the middle of a busy sidewalk, holding the book in one hand and the checkout card in the other.

  Someone bumped into me. A chorus of cars honked.

  This was New York City!

  Tall buildings loomed overhead in the most dramatic contrast from the mountains I’d just left behind. There was a dark wooden door in front of me, with a sign that said Open. I glanced up at the little umbrella awning to make sure I was in the right place. The name was printed in bright lettering.

  The Library of Wight and Wong.

  It didn’t look like much, nestled between a pizzeria and a nail salon. The flat brick wall extending above the library displayed rows of apartment windows.

  I reached back and grabbed the peanut butter container. “Ridge, get out of the jar.” I wasn’t worried about all the people passing by. The Universe would shield them from the genie’s magical appearance.

  A businessman bumped into Ridge as he materialized in a cloud of smoke. “Watch it, kid!” He skirted around us, muttering. Wordlessly, I moved to the door, pushing it open with a little chime of a bell.

  It was dim inside the library, and my eyes took a moment to adjust. When they did, I realized that the place looked more cluttered and cramped than a regular library. The space wasn’t very big, and bookshelves lined the walls and divided the room like a maze. From this angle, I didn’t see anyone browsing the shelves.

  The only person in the library was an old man sitting at the front desk. He must have been ninety, with pure white hair, and a thick pair of glasses resting on his nose. A chain dangled from the horned rims, drooping to form a loop behind his wrinkly neck. His hands looked gnarled with arthritis as he turned the page of a paperback book.

  “Excuse me?” I said. He didn’t seem to hear me, so I leaned forward. “It’s a nice day to save a hamster.”

  “Um, Ace,” Ridge said. “I think it was ‘shave a chipmunk.’”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said. “I thought that sounded wrong.” Clearing my throat, I began again. “It’s a nice day to shave a chipmunk.”

  The old man slowly looked up from his book. “And a nice night to bathe a squirrel.” He reached across the desk to a dark lamp with a green glass shade. He grabbed the hanging chain and gave it a tug. As the light bulb turned on, all the books in the library suddenly changed. It was as if the regular novels and resource books suddenly fell out of sight, and a collection of new books popped up in their place, filling the shelves.

  “Welcome to the Library of Wight and Wong, young Wishmaker,” the man said.

  “And you’re Mr. Wong?” I verified. “The Genieologist?”

  “Of course,” he said. “Who else would I be?”

  “Well,” said Ridge. “You could be Wight.”

  “I’m always right,” he answered.

  “I thought you were Wong,” Ridge said.

  “I’m never wrong.” A slow smile broke across his face. “Ha! That joke never gets old!” He began to laugh, and I hiccuped. But his laugh quickly turned into a cough that lasted a full three minutes. Just when I thought the old man might croak, he seemed to recover.

  “Ruth Wight was the Genieologist before me,” said Mr. Wong. “I was the young Wishmaker who helped her found this library to store our records.”

  “Let’s hope the next Genieologist goes digital,” I muttered, glancing around the dusty shelves.

  “Ace,” said Mr. Wong. His eyes, hugely magnified behind those glasses, studied Ridge and me.

  “Umm . . . you know me?” I said.

  “The Trinketer told me you were coming.” His speech was slow and slightly accented. “Once you gave me the password, I knew it was you.”

  “Passphrase,” Ridge muttered under his breath.

  Mr. Wong slowly rose to his feet and hobbled across the library. He opened the front door and flipped the sign from Open to Closed. Then it took him about five minutes to shuffle back to his desk and lower himself into his seat.

  “There,” Mr. Wong said. “Now we can talk privately without anyone barging in.”

  “Do you get a lot of visitors?” Ridge asked.

  “Oh, no,” said Mr. Wong. “No one cares about libraries anymore. Something called the internets have ruined me. Have you heard of them?”

  “The internet?” I chuckled. “I’ve heard about it.”

  “Still, I’m glad to see that you have a book.” Mr. Wong pointed at the heavy volume I was holding.

  I dropped it on his desk and handed over the checkout card. “The Trinketer gave this to us,” I said. “She said you could stamp it so we can get back.”

  The Genieologist’s magnified eyes studied the card through those thick glasses. Then his bent fingers scooped up a pen and he scribbled my name onto a blank space. It was only three letters, but it took Mr. Wong a long time. After that, he rummaged in a desk drawer for a good five minutes, finally producing a pad of ink and a strange-looking stamp.

  The stamp had a bunch of numbers and some little letters, abbreviating the names of the months. Mr. Wong fiddled with it, rotating the right combination into place until today’s date was the only one showing.

  “I’ve met sloths faster than this guy,” Ridge whispered.

  “You’ve met sloths?” I asked. “When?”

  “It
’s just an expression,” he replied. “I haven’t actually met any in person.”

  Mr. Wong removed the cover of the ink pad and dabbed the date stamp onto the dark surface. Then, ever so carefully, he pressed the stamp on a blank space beside my name, rocking it gently back and forth.

  “One Thousand and One Nights,” he said. “Have you boys read this one?”

  “We didn’t really have time,” I said. “We only got it like a half hour ago.”

  “It’s full of stories,” Mr. Wong said.

  “Aren’t most books?” asked Ridge.

  “She told stories for more than a thousand nights,” said Mr. Wong.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Scheherazade.”

  “Bless you,” Ridge said.

  “That wasn’t a sneeze,” said Mr. Wong. “That was the name of the young girl who told these stories to the king of ancient Arabia. Like Scheherazade, it is my responsibility as the Genieologist to keep and tell stories. Stories of quests, and genies, and Wishmakers. True stories that the common person would take as fiction.”

  Mr. Wong handed me the stamped checkout card and I slipped it into my pocket.

  “Now, you have come to the Library of Wight and Wong seeking answers for your quest,” said Mr. Wong.

  I nodded excitedly. “What can you tell me about Samuel Sylvester Stansworth?”

  “I will tell you his story,” said the old Genieologist. “I will tell you about his quest, and his fate.”

  “Can you tell me about his family?”

  “I’m sure I’ve got that information on file here.” Mr. Wong gestured at the books behind him.

  My heart was hammering. Did this guy really know as much as he claimed?

  “Pull up a chair,” said Mr. Wong. “It’s story time.”

  Chapter 11

  Ridge and I had just hauled a couple of heavy chairs over to the desk when Mr. Wong began the long process of standing up. “Follow me,” he said.

  “But I thought you just told us to pull up some chairs,” I said.

  “I only said that for dramatic effect,” he said, leading Ridge and me into the cluttered library. “I have to look up the information on Samuel Sylvester Stansworth. My memory isn’t what it used to be.”