Tales from Adventureland the Doomsday Device Read online

  And if the leader of the Collective had her way, the victims she targeted would be the Jungle Explorers’ Society. She’d afflict all of them with unspeakable suffering unless she got what she wanted.

  Doesn’t take a genius to guess exactly what that will be, Andy mused. There was no doubt about it.

  The Potentate wanted every single magical artifact that the J.E.S. possessed.

  And Andy knew that with that kind of incredible supernatural power, she could effectively rule the world.

  I sure hope you know what to do next, Grandfather, Andy thought. Because at the moment, everything looks pretty hopeless to me.

  The ocean waves reflected the fading rays of the setting sun. Gulls circled overhead, calling happily to one another as they danced on a gentle Pacific breeze.

  The entire group was sitting on the balcony of Ned’s seaside mansion in Oregon, sipping cups of exotic thistleberry tea, which their host had assured them would cure any jet lag they still felt from the flight back from Cairo.

  Ned Lostmore, a living, breathing shrunken head, was inside one of the many cabinets that he had placed around the mansion. This particular one seemed to be made of koa wood, a favorite among shipbuilders for its resistance to the ocean elements. It had carvings of giant squids and mermaids around the outside of its glass door, and inside, bobbing on a string, was Andy’s grandfather.

  As Andy sipped the slightly bitter tea and gazed at the beautiful view, he couldn’t help thinking that it would have been easy to forget that their enemies were on the brink of unlocking a Doomsday Device that could threaten the entire world.

  “All right, just to be clear—now that the Potentate has the scroll, she has the means to find and activate the Doomsday Device, correct?” demanded Rusty.

  “If what the legends say about the weapon is true, then yes. Written upon that fragment of scroll is the secret word that is supposed to activate it,” Ned said.

  “Do you have any idea where the Doomsday Device might be?” asked Albert Awol. Albert, a grizzled sea captain, was Ned’s oldest and most loyal friend.

  “We both know, Ned, that you always have a secret or two up your sleeve,” Albert continued with a chuckle. “That is, when you used to have sleeves and wore coats. In fact, where do you keep your secrets nowadays? I’d be surprised if you can keep them rattling around in that tiny noggin of yours.”

  Ned laughed good-naturedly at his friend’s ribbing. “I must confess that this time I’m at a bit of a loss. I have no idea where the infernal machine is located,” he admitted.

  “Then I guess that’s it,” said Andy, suddenly feeling miserable. “There’s no hope. We’ve lost.”

  “Tut-tut, my boy. Remember what I told you after our last adventure?” said Ned.

  Andy thought back to his grandfather’s words and sighed.

  The last thing you need to learn before becoming a full-fledged member of the Jungle Explorers’ Society is that we never give up hope. It’s as much a part of who we are as saying yes to adventure and staying loyal to our friends.

  “I know, I know,” Andy mumbled.

  But privately, he knew that not giving up hope was the toughest attribute for him to learn. He’d always been a worrier by nature, and deep down, it was hard not to think that impossible odds were exactly what they appeared to be: impossible!

  “How do we know that she hasn’t already activated it?” asked Abigail nervously.

  “We will know,” said Ned. “The legends say that the clock on the device runs from twelve noon to twelve midnight. During those twelve hours, if the clock ticks unopposed, that one single day will be the most devastating that we, the Potentate’s enemies, have ever experienced. I’m sure that every member of the Jungle Explorers’ Society will know when the countdown begins, for it’s certain to be most unpleasant.”

  Ned called to Boltonhouse, his mechanical servant.

  Seconds later, the big robot clanked onto the balcony. Andy noticed that the machine carried a rolled-up piece of parchment. When it arrived, the mechanical man proceeded to spread it open on the table. Andy stared down at the drawing of the artifact that he’d seen briefly at the Potentate’s hideout, a schematic that displayed the ominous clock known as the Doomsday Device.

  “As you can see,” said Ned, “this is no ordinary clock. The pictographs displayed where each number would normally be indicate the tortures that the victims will endure once the device is activated.”

  The entire group stared down at the skeletal figures pictured on the clock’s face. Each one seemed to be writhing in a different form of pain and torment. Andy had seen it before, and it was even worse than he remembered.

  To Andy, it seemed as if each number created something worse for the victim until midnight. At that point, the haunted figure appeared to be nothing but a staring, empty skull.

  “It’s horrible,” said Betty, staring at the foreboding images with a look of disgust.

  “Is there any way to stop it?” echoed Dotty.

  Ned’s blue eyes scanned the group. “Ah! Well! Now we come to the exciting part. Has any of you heard the legend of Yggdrasil?”

  “That’s Norse mythology,” piped up Abigail. “It’s supposed to be the name of the tree that the world is built upon. A tree from the beginning of time.”

  Ned nodded. “Quite so. However, the legend of the Eternal Tree spans many cultures. And what many people don’t know is that it actually exists.”

  A hushed silence fell over the group. For a long moment the only sound was the crashing waves at the bottom of the cliffs far below them. Andy broke the silence by saying, “I’m guessing that it’s an apple tree. Like in the story of the Garden of Eden?”

  Ned smiled. “I can see why you’d think that, dear boy, but no. It is, in fact, a date palm. It is the oldest living thing on Earth and is nearly impossible to find. It has been called the Dominguez Palm by some, the name Dominguez coming from the Latin word for lord and master, and it is most certainly that: the literal king of all trees.”

  Andy and the others exchanged confused glances. It seemed that everyone shared the same thought. What could a legendary tree possibly have to do with stopping the Collective?

  But Ned, as usual, was one step ahead of them and continued, saying, “The most important part about the tree is the magical being that lives inside of it. His name is Patrick Begorra. He is the caretaker of the tree and, if the legends are true, practically as old as the tree itself. If we can find him, then I believe he might be able to help us. He knows more about the Doomsday Device than anybody, because he’s been around since its creation.”

  “Hang on, who exactly was it that created the Doomsday Device? I assume it must have been some kind of very sick and twisted individual,” said Rusty.

  Ned nodded. “It was indeed,” he said. “The creator was a dark sorcerer from ancient times. His name is forgotten now to all but Patrick himself. Leprechauns are known to live a long time; some say about two hundred years is the maximum. But Patrick…if the stories are true, then he’s been around for more than a thousand years. Imagine that!” said Ned.

  “Leprechauns…wait a minute, are you talking about the little people?” asked Abigail. “You mean…like…fairies and mythical creatures like that?”

  “Precisely,” said Ned. “Remember, not all myths are untrue. Most of those who study ancient lore believe that Patrick Begorra is the last living leprechaun, a magical being of great power and importance. The Eternal Tree is not on any maps, and he intends to keep it that way for fear of someone destroying it.”

  “Corn and crawdads!” bellowed Rusty. “Then how are we going to find it?”

  Andy thought that if a shrunken head had shoulders, Ned would have shrugged.

  “No idea, my good man. It’s going to take a tremendous amount of luck. I only know about Patrick through legendary stories that I heard while on an adventure in Ireland. I was busy finding a new location for the Blarney Stone, a very powerful artifact…” he
began.

  “Wait a second,” Andy interrupted. “I’ve seen photographs of the Blarney Stone, and it’s still on public display.”

  Ned laughed. “You don’t think that’s the real stone, do you? Such an artifact is much too valuable to have tourists kissing and slobbering all over it all the time. I swapped it out so that it could be kept safely away from those who would use its magic for nefarious purposes.”

  “But you still haven’t answered the question,” said Dotty, returning to the subject. “How do we start looking for this Patrick Begorra? It sounds incredibly difficult to find him if he lives in a mythical, magic tree.”

  Ned chuckled. “Nearly impossible! Doesn’t that make it fun?”

  The shrunken head gazed out of his glass cabinet at the horizon. The sun was sinking now, and the sky had turned from bright orange to a dull, ominous red. “There is only one person I know of who might have an idea of where to start looking for Patrick Begorra. He is the foremost expert on ancient lore and has spent much time researching the fair folk, as the locals refer to them.”

  Ned turned his gaze back on the others, his eyes twinkling. “He also has a small but lucrative business creating lightning rods. And he believes, among other things, that he can control the weather.”

  “Sounds like a nutcase,” said Betty.

  “Many think he’s quite insane,” agreed Ned. “But he was present at my funeral, and that alone shows his loyalty to our cause.”

  Andy flashed back to the day a few months ago when he’d thought his grandfather had died—something that had been designed as a clever ruse to throw the enemies of the J.E.S. off their scent while they looked for the Pailina Pendant. At the time, Andy had known nothing about the ruse. He’d had no idea that his grandfather was in fact alive—as a living, breathing shrunken head!

  All he had known was that at the funeral he had encountered some of the strangest people that he’d ever met, though he now called some of them his closest friends. And there had been one who stood out from the rest: a strange wild-haired man who wore a hat and long cloak and carried lightning rods around in a big sack—lightning rods that had bizarre magical symbols forged onto their tops.

  “Nicodemus Crumb?” asked Rusty with a bewildered expression on his face.

  Ned nodded and gave the bush pilot a piercing look. “Yes, Rusty. Nicodemus Crumb.” Ned turned his attention back to Andy and added, “And in the meantime, we’ll need to entrust our young Keymaster here with the most important task of all.”

  Boltonhouse clanked over to Andy and stretched out his metal hand. There was a very ordinary-looking key in it.

  “What does that open?” asked Andy.

  “It is the key to my mansion,” said Ned. “And, more importantly, it is also the key to the vault that lies beneath it. Inside that vault are some of the most dangerously powerful artifacts we have in our possession. The Potentate will no doubt try everything in her power to force us to give it to her. It will be your responsibility as the Keymaster to keep it safe.”

  Andy stared at the plain-looking key. His stomach churned with anxiety at the thought of so much responsibility. “But wouldn’t it be safer here with you?” Andy asked.

  Ned shook his head. “I feel fairly certain that the Potentate will eventually attempt an attack on the mansion to try to figure out where our artifacts are hidden. Especially when she finds that, Doomsday Device or no, our stalwart Society won’t succumb to her tortures. Albert, would you be willing to stay back and help me defend the mansion?”

  Albert nodded grimly. “No need to ask, old friend. Of course I will.”

  “Torture? Bah!” Rusty exclaimed. “There’s no torture in the world that would ever make me turn traitor on the Society.” A chorus of voices echoed his statement.

  Ned nodded and glanced around the room. “I don’t doubt you, my friends. But we also have no idea what dark tortures this clock will release. There might be pain that’s so intense, it could change even the most courageous of heart. The good news is that without that key, she will never be able to get into the vault. I can safely say that I’m one step a-head of her in that regard!” Ned chuckled at his pun, but nobody else was in the mood to laugh.

  Ned looked kindly at Andy. “Besides, I can think of no safer place than your capable hands for our most important key, Grandson. Taking it with you on your quest might mean we can keep her at bay a bit longer. Even if, by torture, some members of the J.E.S. were to tell her about the vault, the fact that the key is far from here will cause her no end of frustration.”

  Andy’s hand shook as he reached out and took the key from the robot’s hand. He could feel the solemn stares of everyone in the room as he placed it on his key ring.

  “I’ll try not to let you down,” Andy said, hoping he sounded braver than he felt. And even though he felt several reassuring pats on the back from his friends, it didn’t do much to still his rapidly beating heart.

  It’s all riding on me now, he thought as he pocketed the key. And with that knowledge, he also couldn’t help wondering if his grandfather had made a terrible mistake.

  It was a ramshackle building made of logs and held together with rope. The sign that read SOUTH SEAS TRADERS was as dilapidated as the rest of the building, and the overall appearance wasn’t particularly welcom-ing to visitors. It was the kind of place that someone had to know about, a place that reminded Andy of the speakeasies he’d heard about in cities like Chicago. They were the kinds of disreputable spots that could be accessed only with a password or a signal of some kind.

  It had taken just three days to get to the jungle outpost thanks to one of Ned’s miraculous inventions, a submarine that was faster than the fastest yacht. And if it hadn’t been for his canteen filled with thistleberry tea, Andy would have found all the travel he’d been subjected to lately completely exhausting.

  When they’d arrived in the Caribbean, Andy was immediately reminded of all the pirate stories he’d ever read. Swaying palms rocked back and forth in the tropical breeze. The air smelled of brine, and the salt spray stung his cheeks.

  For Andy, the exotic beaches had conjured up images of buried treasure, buccaneers, and ne’er-do-wells. If the stories about them were true, then hiding behind the tall palms and glittering coastline were also darker secrets…things “dead men told no tales” about.

  Thinking about that had reminded Andy that the crystalline beauty he saw all around him might be deceptive and that he should certainly stay on guard for any signs of trouble.

  The group had shouldered their packs and made their way up the beach and into a thick grove of jungle plants and heavy forest. Andy’s pack was fairly light. Though he’d insisted that he could carry more, Rusty had taken the bulk of the supplies, claiming they weighed less than a feather.

  The big pilot was strong, but he’d taken on more than his fair share of the load. Andy had suspected he would be feeling it by the time they reached their destination, which Ned had told them was several miles into the jungle.

  The hike had been long and arduous. Betty and Dotty led the way with two very sharp machetes that they’d used to hack and chop a trail for the others to follow. Rusty had followed behind them, red-faced and sweating, but he also hadn’t complained a single bit. The experienced bush pilot’s lantern jaw had simply jutted forward like the blade of a plow, and he had plunged resolutely after the twins.

  Andy and Abigail had brought up the rear. And unfortunately, all the ruckus they caused as they hacked through the underbrush had shaken many insects out of their nests. Both he and Abigail had spent over an hour swatting and slapping at their arms and cheeks, feeling fairly miserable and each hoping quietly that the miserable trek would soon be over.

  They finally emerged into the middle of a small village that Andy had felt certain was not on any maps. Looking around, he saw to his left a small, run-down restaurant with a shingle carrying the faded image of a Bengal tiger. The grimy cook positioned outside was serving up skewers of
spiced, sizzling meat on a rusty grill. He caught Andy looking at him and grinned, displaying rows of missing teeth. In spite of the cook’s appearance, whatever he was cooking smelled delicious, and the scent made Andy’s stomach rumble.

  Andy hoped it wasn’t tiger. He’d feel terrible about eating a barbecued cat!

  Across the way from the barbecue stood a small wooden dock. There were a few more weathered buildings positioned near it, nestled on the banks of a winding brown river. Andy noticed that one of the buildings was called the Skipper’s Canteen and seemed to be a restaurant. Judging by its position, it was in direct competition with the owner of the barbecue across the way.

  Where the rustic meat griller was offering simple jungle fare, the Skipper’s Canteen looked like the sort of place that was trying to offer a bit of sophistication to the more discerning traveler. The exterior was designed in the French colonial fashion with pink gables and shuttered plantation-style windows. It was strangely out of place in the middle of the jungle and had obviously been built for special clientele.

  Andy felt a strong urge to explore everything he saw. He wondered how this whole place had originated. And, more importantly, how soon could he get one of those skewers of sizzling meat at the barbecue?

  “So what now? Should we knock?” asked Abigail, indicating the chipped green door in front of South Seas Traders.

  “We could do that, or we could get lunch,” said Andy. “I’m really getting tired of thistleberry tea and sandwiches. Anybody else want to try what that guy is cooking?” He nodded toward the ramshackle barbecue.

  Betty and Dotty wrinkled their noses. Abigail shook her head. Rusty clapped Andy on the shoulder and said, “I’m in. Always up for some exotic jungle fare.” As he and Andy headed over, Rusty added, “I hope they have pomegranate piranha juice. I haven’t had any of that since I crashed my plane here in ’26.”