Dormia Read online

  "Where have you been?" asked Judy as Alfonso walked into the kitchen.

  "I fell asleep on the way home from school," Alfonso replied with a shrug of his shoulders. "I ended up climbing that tree and feeding the falcons."

  "Again?"

  "That's right," said Alfonso. "And then I couldn't get back to sleep, so it took me forever to get home."

  For a moment, Alfonso considered telling them about his encounter with Kiril, but he quickly decided against it. His mother was already in a depressed state and Alfonso didn't want to get her all upset about some spooky guy who was lurking in the woods.

  "Never mind how slow you went," said Pappy Eubanks, who was already sitting down at the kitchen table, a fork and knife sticking out of each fist. "I'm glad to see you awake on your skis. That is a long journey, a hard journey, and you should be proud of yourself that you made it with your eyes open." For his part, Pappy had absolutely no interest in what Alfonso did in his sleep. Alfonso was quite glad about this, and he always smiled when Pappy griped, "All that sleep craziness is nothing more than tomfoolery." Tomfoolery. That's what Pappy called everything that Alfonso did in his sleep.

  Pappy smiled approvingly at Alfonso and revealed a set of crooked, jack-o-lantern teeth. Pappy was a small man with a large potbelly framed by a pair of old leather suspenders. His face was dominated by an enormous pair of reading glasses that magnified his pupils to the size of golf balls. Traces of potting soil sat in small clumps on his bald, gleaming head. "Sit down my boy," beckoned Pappy. "Let's have a nice meal, shall we? How were the baby falcons today? Hungry, I bet! It's the dead of winter!"

  Alfonso nodded. The three turned to the food on the table and ate dinner in silence. Afterward, Alfonso went to the greenhouse to do his evening chores. He wasn't particularly fond of them. It took him almost an hour to sprinkle teaspoons of Pappy's special, homemade, fluorescent red plant food into each of the two hundred or so potted flowers in the greenhouse. The one bright spot was that he could spend time with the strange plant that he had recently grown. Neither Alfonso, nor Judy, nor Pappy Eubanks, nor the botanist from the University of Minnesota who had once paid them a visit, had the slightest idea what type of plant it was.

  The plant was about a foot tall and very skinny. It had seven dark green leaves that looked too big for the long turquoise stem. And just recently, it had grown the most amazing flower. The flower's petals changed colors every few minutes so that, over the course of an hour, they went from green to blue, to violet, to red, to pink, to yellow, to orange, to maroon, to purple, and then back to green.

  A long-time client of Pappy's from Greenwich, Connecticut, offered Alfonso ten thousand dollars on the spot for the plant. Alfonso refused. Without a moment's hesitation, the man upped his offer to twenty thousand dollars. This was an awful lot of money. It was about half of what Pappy's flower and vegetable business made in an entire year. Both Judy and Pappy begged Alfonso to accept the deal, but Alfonso still refused. He was obstinate because, through a most unusual turn of events, Alfonso was convinced that the plant was his father's.

  As it turns out, Alfonso had always loved a particular family heirloom—an old wooden maraca, or rattle. The rattle had belonged to Leif, who had carried it with him from the Ural Mountains, in northern Russia, where he had been born. Very little was known about Leif's journey from the Urals to North America; in fact, all that Judy knew for certain was that Leif arrived at an orphanage in Vancouver, Canada, at the age of eight. The records also noted that Leif had an older brother named Hill, who was sent to a different Canadian orphanage in Winnipeg. Hill didn't stay there long. Shortly after his arrival in Winnipeg, he ran away and was never heard from again. Judy said Leif had tried to find his brother, but had never succeeded.

  After Leif's drowning, Alfonso treasured the small rattle, with its hand-carved foreign writing, as the strongest connection he had to his father. And then, one night a few months ago, something terrible happened. While Alfonso was sleepwalking around his room, he accidentally stepped on the rattle and cracked it open. The next morning, Alfonso discovered the broken toy. He was beside himself with anger. It was bad enough that his sleeping-self was constantly upstaging him at school, but now it had gone and broken his most treasured possession.

  As he examined the broken rattle, seven large yellow seeds fell onto the floor. Alfonso picked up the seeds in his hand, but when he opened his fingers, he noticed that the seeds had turned orange. A few moments later they turned maroon, then purple, then green. Alfonso placed the seeds in an old pickle jar beneath his bed for safekeeping. The following night, however, his sleeping-self took the seeds, brought them down to the greenhouse, and planted them in a large clay pot. The night after that, Alfonso sleepwalked to a nearby creek, retrieved three small, crescent-shaped stones, and placed them in the pot. The next night, Alfonso sleepwalked to a nearby hilltop, collected two pinecones and a small bag of wolf droppings, and then placed all of this into the pot as well. All told, these nightly missions went on for almost three weeks. It was almost as if Alfonso's sleeping-self were following the directions to some strange recipe, and for once, Alfonso didn't resent these sleeping escapades. Somehow they left him feeling closer to his father. Of course, he had no idea what would come of all of this until, on the fourth week, the seeds he planted sprouted into the remarkable plant that now proudly sat in Pappy's greenhouse.

  After Alfonso finished his chores, he walked over to his plant to admire it for a moment. The petals were turning from violet to red. The change came in a ripple, as if someone had spilled a jar of ink across the face of the flower. Moments later, a loud sound interrupted his observation of the plant.

  Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

  It sounded as if someone were smashing a plank of wood with a hammer. He grabbed a flashlight that was resting on a nearby bench and walked cautiously toward the noise. The greenhouse was quite large—more than three times larger than the cottage in which the Perplexons lived—and as Alfonso walked along the concrete floor, his footsteps echoed across its cavernous ceilings.

  Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

  The noise grew louder. Alfonso flicked on his flashlight and let the beam roam over the greenhouse's plant-filled tables until it fell upon a large wooden crate sitting in a dusty corner.

  Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

  The entire crate was rattling and shaking as if it contained a wild animal. Slowly, Alfonso took a step closer. To his surprise, he realized that the top of the crate was broken and almost completely yanked off. His flashlight shone on the black writing stenciled into the wood:

  FROM:

  BLAGOVESHCHENSK SHIPPING & HANDLING

  34 NORIL'SK

  CITY OF BARSH-YIN-BINDER

  URAL MOUNTAINS, RUSSIA

  TO:

  MASTER ALFONSO PERPLEXON

  WORLD'S END

  STATE OF MINNESOTA IN

  THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  Alfonso was confused. When did this package arrive? Where was Barsh-yin-Binder? And what was making such a racket? Before Alfonso could begin to answer these questions, he heard another strange noise—a loud engine sputtering its way up the Perplexon's driveway. Alfonso glanced at his watch. It was almost nine. No one ever visited the Perplexon home at this time of night. Alfonso rushed back to the door of the greenhouse. In the distance, he saw a man with a flowing mane of white hair riding a motorcycle. The man was taking the icy turns of the Perplexon driveway at such great speeds that Alfonso felt certain he would wipe out. But he didn't. He rode expertly to the front door of the cottage and dismounted. Then, without a moment's hesitation, he turned toward Alfonso and waved.

  "Hello?" yelled Alfonso. "Can I help you?"

  The man simply gestured with his hand for Alfonso to come over.

  "You need some help?" asked Alfonso again.

  The man nodded.

  Alfonso glanced back at the crate and then walked reluctantly toward the man. The motorcyclist was very tall, almost six and a half feet. He had a great deal of white hair, a finely maintained handlebar mustache, and a long crooked nose. He wore an old bomber jacket, a tightly fitted leather aviator's cap, and an ancient-looking pair of racing goggles.

  "Hello, my name is Hill Persplexy, though you should feel free to call me 'Uncle Hill,'" mumbled the man as he took off his racing goggles. "And you must be Alfonso. Yes, you look like your father."

  "Uncle Hill?" said Alfonso incredulously. "You mean you're my father's..."

  "Older brother," muttered the man. "Yes, that's me."

  "Wow!" said Alfonso excitedly. "I never thought you'd—"

  "Show up?"

  Alfonso nodded and then beamed at his uncle. In the years after his father died, Alfonso often hoped that his uncle Hill might magically appear. And, suddenly, here he was. Yet, as Alfonso took a closer look at his long-lost relative, he noticed something peculiar. His uncle's eyes were half closed. Moments later he let out a very audible snore.

  "You're asleep!" said Alfonso.

  "Why of course I'm asleep," Hill mumbled. "Do you think I could have ridden that old motorcycle in these conditions if I were awake? I just sleepdrove here all the way from Chicago, where I live. Nonstop. There's not a moment to lose."

  "Why?"

  "I'll tell you more as soon as I wake up," Hill said briskly. "Let's go inside and get some coffee, shall we?"

  "But in the greenhouse there's—"

  "Never mind that now," said Hill. He drew nearer to Alfonso. "We have urgent matters to discuss—lives are at stake."

  Chapter 3

  McBRIDGE'S BOOK OF MYTHICAL PLANTS

  INSIDE THE HOUSE, Judy Perplexon overcame her initial shock at seeing her husband's long-lost brother and quickly put on a pot of coffee. They all sat dow
n with him in the small living room, next to the fireplace. For at least five minutes, Hill said nothing but snored loudly. It was enough to make Pappy and Alfonso very tired. At last, Judy served him a mug of piping hot Colombian coffee. Hill downed it in several large gulps. He then blinked furiously, rubbed his eyes, looked around the room, and gasped: "Where on earth am I?"

  "You're in World's End, Minnesota," Judy Perplexon calmly explained. "I am Judy, this is my son, Alfonso, and this is my father, Pappy Eubanks."

  "Pleased to meet you. I am Hill Persplexy," he said with a polite nod. "I believe you were acquainted with my brother, Leif Persplexy."

  "Of course I was acquainted with him," Judy softly replied. "H-he was my husband."

  "I see," said Hill. He looked at Judy. "It appears I've missed both his wedding and his funeral. I'm very sorry for your loss. My failure to see Leif before he died will haunt me forever." They sat silently for a few minutes until the silence seemed unbearable. "When did he pass away?" Hill asked.

  "Three years ago," replied Judy.

  "What a horrible pity," said Hill with a sad shake of his head. He reached across the table and grasped Judy's hand tenderly. "You must forgive me for not calling sooner. I only just found out about the whole sad affair myself. When I was driving through town on my motorcycle, I asked for directions to the Persplexy place and this big fellow at the general store told me that Leif had died. Drowned in the lake, he said. This was news to me. As I'm sure you know, the two of us were separated as kids. I've had the darndest time tracking him down. I even hired a private detective at one point. No signs of Leif Persplexy anywhere in the Western Hemisphere. That's what the detective told me. Paid him near seven thousand dollars for that tidbit. Anyway, I'm so glad to have found you. So very, very glad indeed."

  "Uncle Hill?" said Alfonso.

  "Yes," replied Hill kindly.

  "Why are you calling my father Leif Persplexy? His name—our name—is Perplexon."

  "Afraid not," replied Hill with a large, rather apologetic smile. "That was a mistake made by the orphanage in Vancouver. The name is 'Persplexy'—always has been—it's an old Dormian name. Quite a respected one actually. If I remember correctly, there were a number of distinguished Dormian sword makers by that name. Of course, they were asleep while they made the swords, but they still made fine weaponry..."

  Judy and Pappy Eubanks exchanged uneasy looks.

  "I'm sure Leif told you all about Dormia so I won't bore you with the details."

  "He didn't mention anything like that," said a suspicious-looking Pappy.

  "Oh dear," said Hill with a sudden look of concern. "Not a word, eh? Leif always was a bit of a secretive fellow. Didn't like to talk about himself. Yes, well, er ... I have some explaining to do. You see, Alfonso, even though I know very little about you, I am willing to wager that you are a most unusual sleeper."

  "Tell me about it," said Alfonso with a sigh. "The doctors say I've got Morvan's syndrome."

  "Those doctors are fools," said Hill. "They insist on coming up with fancy, complicated names for any so-called disorders that baffle them. When I was in an orphanage in Winnipeg, they told me I had the same thing, and claimed it was because I had contracted a rare form of cholera. Nonsense! Let me tell you, dear nephew, what you have is not a disorder, or a syndrome, but a gift! It's the gift of wakeful sleeping. Your father had it because he was Dormian, and obviously he passed it on to you."

  "Is that right?" inquired Pappy Eubanks skeptically.

  "Yes," replied Hill in a matter-of-fact tone. "Dormia is a place where everyone goes about their business—wielding swords, writing books, building palaces, cooking dinner—while asleep. And this is no coincidence. Ever since the beginning of Dormian history, which I confess to know precious little about, the Dormians have been at war with a nasty lot of roaming barbarians known as Dragoonya. Unfortunately, these Dragoonya fellows outnumber us and they're unusually skilled in battle. Don't ask me why they hate us—I forgot. Anyway, at some point along the way, we Dormians took to defending ourselves in our sleep. We simply couldn't afford to waste our sleeping hours in bed. It was necessary to muster every man, woman, and child—sleeping and awake—to be on guard against our eternal foe. We hid ourselves in a series of great mountain fortresses deep within the Ural Mountains. They eventually became the eleven great cities of Dormia."

  "There are eleven cities of Dormia?" inquired Alfonso.

  "There were eleven cities of Dormia," corrected Hill. "The Dragoonya destroyed most of them, although at least one city—Somnos—still exists in the Ural Mountains. That's where Leif and I were born."

  Pappy's eyes looked massive behind his reading glasses. He furrowed his eyebrows and uttered a theatrical sigh.

  "Hmm," grunted Pappy. "You claim these Dormians can defend themselves while asleep? How's that possible? When you're asleep your eyes are closed!" He spoke the last sentence slowly and with great exasperation, as if talking to a very slow person.

  "Not in this case," Hill briskly replied. "Even in the world outside Dormia, it's possible. When normal people sleepwalk, their eyes are often open even if they're in a deep sleep, snoring away. It's the same for Dormians. They may shut their eyes for a few seconds at the beginning of sleep, but then their eyes pop back open. Think of it as a trance."

  Judy glanced at Alfonso. The doctors in St. Paul had described Alfonso's sleeping disorder exactly the same way. Pappy fell silent but soon his eyes lit up again. "Dormia is in the Urals, you say? That should be easy enough to verify. We'll just look it up in my trusty old atlas over here—"

  "Oh, don't bother," interrupted Hill. "You won't find it in an atlas or any other reference book."

  "Is that so?" asked Pappy. "And you expect us to believe this claptrap nonsense with no proof?"

  "To the contrary, my good man," replied Hill. He stood up and took off his old leather bomber jacket. Beneath this he wore a heavy wool turtleneck and a shoulder-strap holster that contained a well-polished Colt .45 revolver. Both Pappy and Judy stiffened at the sight of the gun.

  "Don't worry about the revolver," said Hill. "I'm a well-trained marksman. I got her during my days in the air force. The two of us have been through a lot together. Anyway, what I want to show you is this..." Hill reached into his jacket and pulled out a crinkled December issue of the magazine American Botanist. Alfonso recognized the issue immediately because his plant was featured in its pages. The botanist from the University of Minnesota had snapped a few pictures of the plant during his visit and submitted them to the editors at American Botanist. The article said nothing about Alfonso or Pappy. In fact, it wasn't really an article. It was just a series of photos with a small caption that read, "This remarkable, color-changing plant was grown organically in a greenhouse in World's End, Minnesota."

  "What kind of proof is that?" Pappy demanded. "You can buy that magazine anywhere."

  "Let me explain," said Hill. "Every night during the last month, when I fell asleep I promptly sleepwalked to the nearest newsstand and purchased a copy of American Botanist. This happened every night without fail. Of course, I couldn't understand why I was doing this, but I figured there had to be a reason. At times I may be a fool, but my sleeping-self is a very clever man. I looked through the magazine and there, on page thirty-eight, was a remarkable yet strangely familiar image. Long ago—in another time and place—I knew I had seen this flower with petals that changed color. And then it hit me: this was a Dormian bloom—"

  "This is all very interesting," Pappy Eubanks said impatiently. "But, kind sir, we are still waiting for a shred of proof!"

  "Yes, of course," replied Hill. He reached into his jacket again and this time pulled out a small leather-bound book that wasn't much bigger than a deck of cards. On its cover, in ornate gold writing, were the words McBridge's Book of Mythical Plants. Hill handed it over to Pappy, who stared at it in his hands.