“Arm the secret weapon!” says Toad, and I sigh. In addition to the chain mail he made for the dogs and oxen, Toad made Hatchet a pair of razor-sharp spurs, a set of tiny barbs that attach to the tip of each wing, and a stainless steel pick that clamps over the tip of his beak. We usually wait to put these things on Hatchet until the more dangerous ride home, and it’s always a painful tussle.
Suddenly I realize I left Magical Mercantile without taking Dookie’s red rubber ball. I toss the bag back to Toad. “Gonna leave that to you and Toby,” I say, over my shoulder, as I run across the street.
I find Mad Mike at the counter. He’s packing Porky Pig into a crate. “Aren’t you going to put him on the shelf?” I ask. Mad Mike looks down at the pig already half-ready to ship, then back at me. It’s like he’s taking a moment to form a careful answer. “Well, I . . .” Then he just sets the pig aside and says, “I have a customer who likes these sorts of things. He has a standing order for anything that fits his memory space.”
“Memory space?”
“We all grew up in a certain time and place. And for most of us, as we get older our memories of that time get sweeter. Especially if everything else in our world has changed in ways that make it hard to keep up, or remember how things once were. So some people like to surround themselves with objects that remind them of those times. That’s what I call a memory space. It’s not so much a place as a feeling .
“I know it’s hard to believe, when you look around at this world and what people really need,” says Mad Mike, “but you can make a living scavenging memories.”
“Well, if I ever have a memory space, about the only thing in there will be a knuckleheaded brother and a stick for digging in the dirt,” I said.
Outside I hear an explosion of flapping and squawking.
“And a rooster,” I say. “A stuffed rooster.”
Outside, Toad has the Scary Pruner turned and pointed back up Main Street. Monocle is panting happily. Hatchet is on his perch clucking grumpily and looking dangerous. Toby is sitting silently at the rear. The only sign that he’s been wrassling Hatchet is that his ears are a little redder than usual. I wish I had seen that.
Two hours have passed since we arrived in town. We need to get going. It would be nice to eat lunch at the diner, but the longer we stay the more active the GreyDevils will be, so we’ve each taken a sandwich to go. I climb up beside Toad and as easily as if he were ordering those sandwiches, he says, “Okay, boys, here we go,” and Frank and Spank lean toward home.
The GreyDevils start trailing us pretty much as soon as we leave town.
19
THEY ARE GHOSTLY AT FIRST. JUST HINTS OF SOUND AND FLITS OF movement. A shadow on a tree trunk. A twig snap. A shift in the tall grass. The sun is still high, but suddenly the countryside feels darker. I grip my ToothClub tightly, and check the strap on my helmet. My eyes dart left and right, trying to spot something—anything. Then a GreyDevil steps into the open. It is draped in rags. Its face is sooty and smudged. It shuffles toward the wagon, staring hungrily at our cargo. “Back off, you tatterdemalion mummy-breathed flat-footer!” yells Toad. The GreyDevil stops, its yellow eyes staring as we pass. Its grubby face is cut with tear streaks and snot streaks. I guess I’d have a snotty nose too if I was breathing the smoke from all the things they burn on those bonfires.
Another GreyDevil approaches from an angle, and sidles up near Frank and Spank. Hatchet fluffs his neck feathers and cackles like he’s trying to hack up a fish bone. Wrapping the reins around the buckboard rail, Toad reaches for his bullwhip. I hear the splap! of leather on skin, and the GreyDevil yelps and grabs one arm. A trickle of sickly dark blood seeps from between its grubby fingers.
Frank and Spank just keep moving along, and another GreyDevil approaches from my side of
Suddenly I realize I left Magical Mercantile without taking Dookie’s red rubber ball. I toss the bag back to Toad. “Gonna leave that to you and Toby,” I say, over my shoulder, as I run across the street.
I find Mad Mike at the counter. He’s packing Porky Pig into a crate. “Aren’t you going to put him on the shelf?” I ask. Mad Mike looks down at the pig already half-ready to ship, then back at me. It’s like he’s taking a moment to form a careful answer. “Well, I . . .” Then he just sets the pig aside and says, “I have a customer who likes these sorts of things. He has a standing order for anything that fits his memory space.”
“Memory space?”
“We all grew up in a certain time and place. And for most of us, as we get older our memories of that time get sweeter. Especially if everything else in our world has changed in ways that make it hard to keep up, or remember how things once were. So some people like to surround themselves with objects that remind them of those times. That’s what I call a memory space. It’s not so much a place as a feeling .
“I know it’s hard to believe, when you look around at this world and what people really need,” says Mad Mike, “but you can make a living scavenging memories.”
“Well, if I ever have a memory space, about the only thing in there will be a knuckleheaded brother and a stick for digging in the dirt,” I said.
Outside I hear an explosion of flapping and squawking.
“And a rooster,” I say. “A stuffed rooster.”
Outside, Toad has the Scary Pruner turned and pointed back up Main Street. Monocle is panting happily. Hatchet is on his perch clucking grumpily and looking dangerous. Toby is sitting silently at the rear. The only sign that he’s been wrassling Hatchet is that his ears are a little redder than usual. I wish I had seen that.
Two hours have passed since we arrived in town. We need to get going. It would be nice to eat lunch at the diner, but the longer we stay the more active the GreyDevils will be, so we’ve each taken a sandwich to go. I climb up beside Toad and as easily as if he were ordering those sandwiches, he says, “Okay, boys, here we go,” and Frank and Spank lean toward home.
The GreyDevils start trailing us pretty much as soon as we leave town.
19
THEY ARE GHOSTLY AT FIRST. JUST HINTS OF SOUND AND FLITS OF movement. A shadow on a tree trunk. A twig snap. A shift in the tall grass. The sun is still high, but suddenly the countryside feels darker. I grip my ToothClub tightly, and check the strap on my helmet. My eyes dart left and right, trying to spot something—anything. Then a GreyDevil steps into the open. It is draped in rags. Its face is sooty and smudged. It shuffles toward the wagon, staring hungrily at our cargo. “Back off, you tatterdemalion mummy-breathed flat-footer!” yells Toad. The GreyDevil stops, its yellow eyes staring as we pass. Its grubby face is cut with tear streaks and snot streaks. I guess I’d have a snotty nose too if I was breathing the smoke from all the things they burn on those bonfires.
Another GreyDevil approaches from an angle, and sidles up near Frank and Spank. Hatchet fluffs his neck feathers and cackles like he’s trying to hack up a fish bone. Wrapping the reins around the buckboard rail, Toad reaches for his bullwhip. I hear the splap! of leather on skin, and the GreyDevil yelps and grabs one arm. A trickle of sickly dark blood seeps from between its grubby fingers.
Frank and Spank just keep moving along, and another GreyDevil approaches from my side of
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