Digger Doyle's Real Book of Monsters Page 2

  “Something’s going on.”

  “Like what?”

  “I have no idea. Is your dad going somewhere?”

  “He’s at the boathouse. With my sister.”

  “I don’t mean right now. I mean will he be going somewhere? Like on a trip?”

  “No. Why?”

  “He was at my house last night, talking to my mom about someone going away. Then he left with my father’s globe.”

  Corliss picked up a fat rock and chucked it into the woods. It ripped through leaves as it soared. For a moment, Digger wondered if those creatures his father used to talk about could move that fast.

  “Ever heard of a Kappa?” he asked.

  “Kappa?”

  “Yeah, some kind of animal, in Japan. My dad mentioned it before he left. That was the last time I saw him touch the globe.”

  “Nah, I’ve never heard of a Kappa. One of your father’s crazy stories, I bet.” Corliss picked up another rock. “Hey, Dig, believing there are monsters out there is for kids, you know? Your dad made up those stories for fun—back when you were little.”

  Now and then, Digger still wondered if animals existed that people never saw. He didn’t believe those silly-looking creatures in his father’s drawings were real. But when he and Corliss howled into the forest, he’d imagine himself calling out to those dreamed-up critters and beasts. Corliss only pictured wolves, deer, and bears pricking up their ears.

  “I didn’t say it was a monster—just an animal of some sort. A river creature, with legs and a hard back, like a sh—.”

  Digger stopped as his father’s words flashed through his thoughts.

  “What’s up?” Corliss asked, stopping a few steps ahead. “You see a ghost or something?” He laughed.

  Digger had heard his father’s words in his head again and again over the years, but he hadn’t made the connection. “My father said . . .”

  “What?”

  “That animal, in Japan, has a round bump for a back that’s hard . . . As hard as hardwood.”

  “So?”

  “The shell on his desk—not like a turtle’s, but stretched out, like a shield.”

  “You actually think he caught one of those things? Nah, no way, but . . .” Corliss’s eyes widened as a plan stirred behind them. “Hey, Dig, let’s go back and check it out. I’ve never touched a turtle shell, ever.”

  “We can’t. Your dad took that, too. You didn’t see it?”

  “No, but I wasn’t looking. Anyway, he keeps all his cool stuff down on the boat. Or in his workshop. A shield wouldn’t fit in his toolbox, so he couldn’t have taken it with him in the truck. I would’ve seen it when I watched him go.”

  “So, it’s in his workshop?”

  “Where else? My guess is he’s going to turn it into a turtle robot, or who knows what.” Corliss and everyone else in Westwood had grown accustomed to seeing his father’s wacky inventions. And Mr. Happer was always working on a new one.

  Chuckling at the thought of robotic turtles, Corliss started heading back.

  “Where are you going?” asked Digger.

  “To see it.”

  “We can’t. The workshop’s off limits, right? Your dad said so.”

  “Yeah, but he’s down on the boat with my sis. He’ll be a while. If we go now, he won’t even know we were there. Chill, Dig. C’mon.”

  Mrs. Happer was a happy, peppy person, and hardly ever anxious like Mrs. Doyle, her nerve-wracked sister. With a wide, warm smile she popped her head out a window to greet Digger and Corliss as they strode up the hill toward the Happer house.

  “School’s out, boys,” she called to them. “Did you learn a lot this year?”

  “A little.” Corliss snickered. “We learned that the last day is the longest.”

  “Very funny, Corliss. Hi, Digger.”

  “Hi, Aunt Emma.”

  “Not going fishing this morning?” she asked as they slipped around the corner of the house.

  “Not yet,” Corliss shouted over his shoulder. “We need fresh hooks from the shed.”

  Digger avoided trouble, but for Corliss getting into trouble was like a hobby. He didn’t seem to mind a scolding, a lost dessert for fighting with Pam, or even detention at school.

  In the backyard, Corliss opened the shed door but didn’t go inside. “We’ll leave this door open . . . To make it look like we’re in there for hooks,” he schemed. “You know—in case my mom peeks out another window.” Next, he darted across the patio and past the picnic table to his father’s workshop, which was ten times bigger than the shed. He lifted a weighty flower pot, under which Mr. Happer had hidden the workshop key. Then, in two blinks of an eye, he unlocked the workshop door and scampered inside. “C’mon Digger,” he whispered harshly. “No one will find out—I swear.”

  Digger’s heart beat fast with the fear that his uncle would find out what they were up to, but he had to know if the globe was in there. So, in he stepped, and Corliss closed the door behind them, switched on the lights, and leaned the fishing rods against the wall.

  The workshop—from side to side and front to back—was a tangled mess of machines and materials. Much of the walls was hidden behind heaps of parts, tools, gadgets, jars of nuts and bolts, buckets of nails, screws, coils and clips, and clumps of metal, plastic, and wood of all shapes and sizes. Thick tables were covered with mounds of unfinished creations, and the narrow gaps between them provided just enough space to move around.

  Digger recognized many of his uncle’s inventions. He saw the Whiptail Lizardbot—a red and green mechanical lizard as long as Digger’s leg. Its purpose, Mr. Happer had told them, was to pinpoint rabbits in the vegetable garden and scare them off with a thrash of its flashy tail. However, the rabbits had only ever gazed at that odd-looking contraption. They ate uncomfortably, one eye fixed on the Whiptail Lizardbot and the other on the veggies they were chewing away at.

  On another table was the Sugarwood Tapper, a pump-plus-cooker, shaped like a giant spider. Its metal legs would latch onto a maple tree, its drill-like nose poke into the wood, and its insides suck out sap to make syrup. Unlike the Lizardbot, the Tapper worked extremely well. So well, in fact, that after Mr. Happer forgot to turn it off one evening, the Happers awoke to discover an ankle-deep coating of syrup spreading across their yard, some oozing down the hill in slow sticky streams.

  And next to Digger was what looked like an ostrich-sized hummingbird. Painted one hundred colors, the Ro-Hummer, as Mr. Happer called it, had once flown with the sound of a million buzzing bees. It was fast and awesome, and Digger wished it hadn’t crashed into the workshop roof, never to fly again.

  But Digger and Corliss weren’t there to check out inventions—they’d seen quite enough of them over the years. They were there to find two things, one of which Corliss immediately spotted on a table in the middle of the workshop. He grabbed it with both hands and lifted it over his head.

  “You’re right, Dig. This isn’t from any Westwood turtle I’ve ever seen. Here, feel how heavy it is.”

  Digger had never lifted the shell. He’d never seen it anywhere else but on the corner of his father’s desk. Careful not to bump into any gadgets, he walked up to his cousin and took the shell in his arms. It was as heavy as a tall stack of dinner plates. He put it down and slid his palm across its outer surface. Parts were bumpy like a clamshell, while other patches were as smooth as driftwood.

  “Flip it over.”

  “No, let’s go.” Digger shot an uneasy glance at the workshop door.

  “Okay, in a sec, though. Just want a quick look at the other side first.”

  Corliss turned the shell over. Its underside was like a big, concave, dried bone, with long ridges from top to bottom.

  “A perfect fit for a HUMONGOUS turtle,” Corliss said. “Hey, check it out, over there. Your dad’s globe.”

  There it was, right next to a device Digger hadn’t seen before. At first sight, the device appeared to be a vacuum cleaner, covered en
tirely with see-through plastic.

  Digger was relieved the globe hadn’t been destroyed, yet, for an invention.

  When he got closer, he noticed a wide envelope leaning against the globe’s silver base.

  “That’s for me,” he told Corliss, and Corliss peered over his cousin’s shoulder to have a look.

  “Huh? Who says?”

  “My name’s on it. See? Above my address.”

  Corliss slapped Digger’s back, trying to whack some sense into him. “There’s no name there, Dig, just the address.”

  Digger didn’t know what Corliss was talking about. His name was there, unquestionably, in big bold letters: “DIGGER DOYLE.” The stamp on the top right corner read “JAPAN” with a button-wide picture of a mountain at the edge of a lake. Digger picked up the envelope and turned it over. “JAPAN” was on the other side too, below the words “OSOREZAN” and “AOMORI.”

  “I wonder who it’s from.” Digger’s hands were trembling. Why had no one told him about it? He turned to Corliss. “We really should get out of here.”

  “Why? You afraid to open it? It’s not for you, anyway, but if you want to see what’s inside, go ahead and—”

  “And what?” Mr. Happer asked in his deepest voice.

  Digger and Corliss froze. A stray breeze whirled into and throughout the workshop. In the open doorway stood Mr. Happer, their fishing rods in his hand.

  Pam, her head peeking out from behind, was smiling a gotcha smile. “Hi, guys,” she said with a rascally giggle. “Catch anything?”

  Chapter 3—An Unbelievable Gift

  Pam had a big mess of tangled hair, a patch of freckles per cheek, and always-grass-stained pants. A year younger than Corliss and Digger, she climbed as deftly as a squirrel, was a pro at popping out from nowhere when least expected, and, like a sniffer dog, could track down her brother and cousin in no time flat. For Pam, finding them was a game, which is why Corliss blamed her for showing up at the workshop with their father.

  While Mr. Happer scowled at Corliss, Corliss glared at Pam, but that didn’t stop her from taunting him in a whisper through a devilish grin. “You’re. In. Trouuuble.”

  “YOU ARE!” Corliss snapped back.

  “Doesn’t look that way to me.” Pam stuck her tongue out at him.

  “Um, Dad, we haven’t gone to the bridge yet,” Corliss confessed. “We were just . . . Well . . . We were going to . . .”

  “Going to wha—” Mr. Happer just then noticed the envelope in Digger’s hand.

  Digger jumped in. “It was my idea, Uncle Buddy.” He looked down at his sneakers. “I talked to Corliss about my father’s shell. Last night, I saw you leave with it. I’m sorry, but I didn’t want you turning it—or the globe—into an invention.”

  “Okay, okay . . .” Corliss let out. “It was me who wanted to see the shell. All Digger did was mention it.”

  Pam was messing around with a pair of pliers, making bird squawks each time she squeezed and released the handles.

  “All right, Digger, Corliss. I understand why you’re here—Pam! Don’t touch anything!—and, Digger, I apologize for not asking you if I could borrow the shell and globe before making off with them.”

  Digger was surprised by Mr. Happer’s apology and relieved his uncle wasn’t angry.

  “If I’d been ready sooner,” Mr. Happer said, “I would have gone to your house earlier and spoken with you directly. You see, I had to finish assembling my Plastron-Zetetic first.” He eyed the weird vacuum-cleaner-like contraption covered with plastic. “Then, of course, I had to test it—to make sure its panel still detects. I shouldn’t be sharing all this with you kids right yet, but without a shell like the one from your father’s desk, Digger, there’s no way I could check if my device works properly. And I had to do it here because the workshop is soundproof; the device can make a deafening racket.”

  “What about the globe?” Digger asked, as Pam placed a hand flat against the Pacific Ocean and spun the old orb.

  “Well, as with maps, globes show us where places are in relation to each other, and how far away they are. They’re also useful for figuring out the best ways to get to those places.” He paused. “But before I say another word about the matter at hand, let’s wait for your mother, Digger. You can take the globe and the shell home with you after lunch. As for you, Corliss, I’ve told you time and again not to come in here,” he scolded. “Pam, stop touching that!” She’d been poking at the Ro-Hummer’s shattered wing, which was lying among a jumbo nest of spiraling cables. “All those sharp pieces of metal and tools . . .” His tone calmed. “But I suppose boys will be boys. And girls, girls.” Again, he glanced at the envelope. “I can see you’ve found more than just your globe and shell.” Digger had forgotten he was holding the envelope. “Do you know what that is, Digger?”

  “It’s addressed to me.”

  “Oh, it is?” Mr. Happer seemed half-surprised. “I wondered if it might be. So, it’s true, which means there’s no time to waste,” he muttered to himself. Digger placed the envelope, and whatever was inside, back on the table.

  “You’d all better come with me now. Pam, go next door, will you? Ask your aunt if she wouldn’t mind coming as soon as she can.” With a nod Pam slipped out of the workshop and shot off like a jackrabbit.

  “Corliss, bring the shell. We’ll be having lunch later at the picnic table—you can put it there for now. Digger, we’ll need the globe. Oh, and the envelope. And I’ll bring my device.” He walked over to the Plastron-Zetetic and exchanged it for the fishing rods.

  Corliss, now certain he wouldn’t be allowed a second helping of summer stew—maybe not even a first—scrunched up his face. “You and your silly stories, Digger. Getting us into trouble. We should’ve kept going to the bridge.”

  Digger was relieved the globe and shell were safe. He and Corliss followed Mr. Happer outside, and Mr. Happer locked the door behind them, then dropped the key into his deepest pocket.

  * * *

  At the picnic table, Digger, Mrs. Happer, and Corliss watched Mr. Happer pace back and forth, organizing his thoughts as he prepared to explain what was going on. Pam was skipping toward them, and behind her Mrs. Doyle was making long strides across the yard, already flustered and frazzled.

  “Oh, good, they’re here,” Mrs. Happer said to no one in particular.

  Pam ran up and twirled the globe, and Mrs. Doyle took a seat beside her sister, then anxiously watched the world whirl round.

  “First things first.” Mr. Happer picked up the envelope and held it out for everyone to have a look at. “Digger, can you read what you see here?”

  “‘To Digger Doyle . . . 4 Lost Oak Lane, Westwood—’”

  “Thank you. The address is visible to all of us. But—and I don’t mean to alarm you—what we can’t see is your name.” He handed Digger the envelope. Digger was sure his name was there—as sure as he was that the envelope was in his hand.

  Mrs. Doyle’s fingers pressed against her lips, possibly to block whatever words of shock might explode out of her. Even Mrs. Happer’s cheery eyes had lost some of their light, as though she’d been given dreadful news.

  “He told me the same thing,” Corliss said. He strained his eyes to check if the sunlight revealed any letters he hadn’t seen before. “There’s not a mark above the address, not one.”

  “Yeah . . .” Pam’s chin hovered over Digger’s shoulder. “It’s blank above the address. And the stamp—all it says is, ‘JAPAN.’”

  “Oh dear, oh dear,” Mrs. Doyle said, unable to keep her cool for a millisecond longer.

  “Now, now, there’s no need to jump to conclusions,” Mr. Happer told her. “Why don’t you open it, Digger? I’d like to know if there’s anything else you can read which we cannot.”

  Digger untucked the envelope’s flap and slid a finger inside. He thought he was about to pull out a letter from Japan—maybe, just maybe, from his father. But that hope washed away when he removed an old folded book page—de
sert-bone-dry and green-splotched from age.

  But then, as he unfolded that ancient piece of paper, his disappointment vanished under a fresh wave of excitement. This page was not from any ordinary book; this page had come from the book, and glancing over the words and drawings, he knew, too, that this page was particularly special.

  “Why are you smiling?” Pam asked.

  “Yeah,” said Corliss, “nothing’s funny about getting nothing—at all.”

  “It’s from my father’s book.” Digger held it up for everyone to see. They narrowed their eyes at the page, then searched each other’s faces for the answer to the question none of them knew how to ask.

  “You mean it’s a blank page from one of his notebooks?” Mrs. Happer said, studying Digger’s face as if he’d gone a bit nutty. “Um, there’s no writing on it, dear.”

  “No—from his book on . . . rare animals. See, look at the pictures, and what’s written here about them. He read part of this to me the night before he left for Australia.”

  “Are you okay, Cuz?” Pam flicked the corner of the page. “It’s a hundred percent empty.”

  To which Mr. Happer said, “It seems . . . How shall I put it? To us that page appears blank, but to Digger, it’s quite the opposite.”

  “And that’s absurd.” Mrs. Happer leaned across the table for a closer look. “Not even the dot of an i there—look.”

  “So, it’s true,” Mrs. Doyle said, more distraught than Digger had seen her in years.

  “Yes, Isabelle, that seems to be the case.” Mr. Happer was trying to put pieces of a puzzle together in his head. “Amazing—he has the gift.”

  “Well, it’s not much of a present, is it?” Corliss grabbed the page from Digger.

  “Not that kind of gift, Corliss. Your cousin has the ability to read words and see pictures that you and I are unable to. Digger’s father had this gift as well, or so he told me. I didn’t believe him at the time. Isabelle knew too.”