Authors: Liane Moriarty

War on Whimsy (14 page)

BOOK: War on Whimsy

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CHAPTER 22

The Space Brigade sat at the head of a long, beautifully carved wooden table covered with flowers, in the center of the village square.

The village was built right on the side of the lake, so that everywhere they looked they could see the dancing reflections of the water. The cottages had cherry-red front doors, fluttering lace curtains, and window boxes overflowing with flowers.

After endless discussion (much of it pointless and involving reciting of poetry and singing of songs), it had finally been agreed that after the feast in their honor, he, President Henry Sweet, would lead the Space Brigade to Griddlemill at Diamond-Moon. Apparently that was when Whimsy's four moons formed a diamond shape in the night sky.

“The Volcomanian army always goes to bed straight after Diamond-Moon,” Henry Sweet had explained. “They're running this war according to a strict schedule.

Now you're probably wondering about the word
schedule
. I'd never heard of it, either. You see, Volcomanians
plan
what they're going to do at certain times each day and then they
stick to the plan
. Can you imagine anything more horrible or restrictive? It reminds me of too-tight pants.”

“We have schedules and timetables on Earth,” said Greta. “They're actually very useful.”

“Oh,” said Henry, with a horrified expression as if Greta had just admitted that the Earthlings never bathed. “I do beg your pardon.”

“I guess you could say that if we're leaving at Diamond-Moon, then we're planning ahead, so we've got a schedule ourselves,” pointed out Tyler.

That was too much for Henry. He mumbled something about feeling dizzy and vanished.

“I can't believe he's the president of this planet,” hissed Greta. “He's a fruitcake.”

“They're artists,” said Katie.

She pointed at the Whimsians of the village. Some of them were sculpting statues of the Space Brigade. Many of them had easels set up and were painting their portraits. Another group was rehearsing a musical all about the “day the children were saved.” They could just make out some of the lyrics:

“
And just when all hope was lost,

And we thought we would pay a most terrible cost!

The Space Brigade turned up like sun after rain . . . after raiiiiin . . . after raiiiiiiiin!”

“I know they're artists but that's no excuse for being so hopeless,” said Greta.

“You sound like a Volcomanian,” said Shimlara. “Next thing you'll be saying this war is justified.”

“War is terrible,” said Greta. “But I can sort of understand why Volcomania finds Whimsy so, well, frustrating.”

“I wonder if this feast will actually include food,” said Sean worriedly. “Remember how XYZ40 said they forget to eat? And I guess Volcomania has cut off their food supply.”

“There are more important things to worry about than food,” said Nicola, although she was actually feeling very hungry herself. They hadn't eaten since their breakfast that morning in Volcomania.

“I think we're going to be okay,” said Tyler. “Look!”

Whimsians were appearing from every direction staggering under the weight of gigantic platters containing the most extraordinarily beautiful desserts.

There were towering cakes of shaved chocolate and whipped cream.

There were meringues piled high with sugar-speckled strawberries.

There were flaky pastries adorned with lacy toffee sculptures.

“They look too good to eat,” commented Katie. “Each one is a work of art!”

“I think I'll still manage to eat them,” said Sean.

The Whimsians placed the desserts on the long table and then stood back with their hands clasped in front of them, their heads bowed demurely, as if waiting for applause.

“Ummm,” said Nicola uncertainly. She looked at the others. There was no silverware or plates. Were they meant to eat with their hands? Maybe that was the custom on the Planet of Whimsy? She didn't want to offend anyone by asking for spoons if they didn't exist. On the other hand, it seemed very rude (and messy) to just dig in to these beautiful desserts.

While Nicola was still trying to figure out what to do, Shimlara spoke up.

“These look absolutely wonderful,” she said politely. “But we're just not sure how you eat them?”

The Whimsians looked perplexed and then they slapped their foreheads and cried, “Silverware! Why do we always forget silverware?”

All the Whimsians blushed in unison, their pale faces flushing a rather lovely crimson color. Some of them wept. Others sat down, their heads in their hands.

“We are so
foolish
!”

“We're hopeless!”

“The feast is ruined!”

“There's really no problem,” said Sean. “Could you maybe, ah, grab us the silverware?”

“Oh!” they cried, as if they hadn't even thought of there being an actual solution to the problem. “Of course!” They ran off, back to their cottages.

“For heaven's sake,” said Greta.

“I'd take small bites of these desserts,” whispered Shimlara.

“They seem like the sort of cooks who might accidentally use salt instead of sugar.”

The Whimsians ran off and returned with piles of plates, knives, and spoons. The Space Brigade served themselves and took tentative bites.

“Ahhhhhhh,” they all said at once. The desserts tasted as exquisitely beautiful as they looked. The Whimsians beamed with pleasure and an orchestra struck up a celebratory tune.

“Is Volcomania still supplying your food now that they're at war with you?” said Nicola to Henry Sweet's wife.

“No, they've cut us right off!” said Mrs. Sweet, as if this was a rather fascinating development. “We used the very last scraps of our food to make these desserts.”

“Oh no.” Nicola put down her spoon. “You shouldn't have! What will you do now?”

“About what?” said Mrs. Sweet sweetly.

“About food?”

“Oh, I'm not at all hungry, thank you. I had an enormous piece of the chocolate meringue.”

“Yes, but you will be hungry later, and you'll have nothing to eat.”

Mrs. Sweet smiled politely, as if she had absolutely no idea what Nicola was talking about.The concept of planning ahead was obviously completely foreign to her. “Do excuse me,” she said. “I just thought of a rather interesting plot twist for my novel.”

An hour later, Sean was the only one in the Space Brigade still eating.The rest of them had finally laid down their spoons and joined the Whimsians, who were lying around on picnic blankets watching the stars appear in the evening sky.

It was like watching fine pieces of jewelery laid out on a midnight blue satin cloth. Each star was a different color and shape. There was a soft green oval like an antique brooch; a string of tiny teardrops like a diamond bracelet.

Nicola licked leftover sugar from her fingers and was surprised to find her eyes filling with tears.

“Your planet is so beautiful it hurts my heart,” she said to Rosie, the preschool teacher, who was lying next to her.

“I know what you mean,” sighed Rosie, pulling her long braid over her shoulder. “Every day when the sun rises, tears of joy stream down my face.”

“That's all very well,” said Greta, who was sitting up cross-legged on the blanket next to Rosie and Nicola and not even bothering to look at the stars. “But you do realize your planet is at war right now? And you're all just lying around admiring the sky? Your school was
bombed
today!”

“Greta,” sighed Nicola. She thought that Greta was being extremely rude. “Oh! Look at this star! It's like a giant ruby!”

“Shouldn't some of you be guarding the perimeter of your village? Or working out your defense strategies?” continued Greta. “Do you have any strategies at all? You're going to lose this war!”

“I'm sure you're right,” said Rosie vaguely. “We have no experience with war. We don't really like war, to be frank.”

“Nobody likes war!” said Greta. “But you've still got to fight back!”

“Mmmm,” said Rosie. “Do you think we could talk of something more pleasant? That particular topic is making my head ache.”

Greta groaned with frustration.

Nicola closed her eyes so she could no longer see the stars. The sensible part of her mind knew that Greta had a point. It would be terrible if the Planet of Whimsy were to lose the war and their independence. It was just so hard to even think about it when everything was so distractingly beautiful.

Anyway, what could they do about it? They weren't here to help Whimsy win the war. They were here to rescue Shimlara's family and that was enough of a challenge.

“Is that the Diamond-Moon?” said Sean from the feast table. It sounded like his mouth was still stuffed full of cake.

Nicola opened her eyes and saw that four silvery moons had appeared in the sky in the shape of a diamond.

She stood up and shook her head vigorously, trying to clear the fuzzy feeling created by all that starlight and sugar. She felt like she needed to eat a straightforward ham sandwich on brown bread and work on a difficult math problem.

“Where is Henry Sweet?” she said, trying to make her voice firm and decisive, rather than soft and dreamy. “It's time we left for Griddlemill.”

CHAPTER 23

It was another hour before they finally set off. Nobody had been able to find Henry Sweet. He'd finally been discovered in the studio of his cottage painting a giant canvas bright orange.

“I have an idea for a new painting,” he said, with a feverish light in his eyes.

“That's wonderful, darling!” said his wife. “Well, in that case, we must leave you to it.” She turned to the Space Brigade. “Perhaps we could postpone your journey until tomorrow night? Or next week? When the artistic mood strikes, Henry does nothing but paint. I'm sure you'll understand.”

But all that time they'd spent looking for Henry had well and truly cured Nicola of her beauty overload and put her in a cranky mood. She was also feeling queasy from eating too much dessert.

“That's not possible,” she said.“We must get to Griddlemill as soon as possible. Don't forget that the Gorgioskios are only in the prison camp because they cared so much about your planet. And by the way, I don't mean to be rude, but you're the
president
and your planet is under attack! You should be thinking of your people, not your next painting!”

Henry dropped his paintbrush with a splatter of orange paint.

“You're right! Of course, you're right! I'd forgotten I was president! And I'd forgotten we were at war!” He collapsed on to a small stool and looked anguished. “And you saved my child today! I'm a terrible, terrible, person. My selfishness is like a snake wrapped around my heart, it's like aâoh!”

Sean and Shimlara had grabbed him by the elbows and hauled him to his feet.

“We don't have time for this, buddy,” said Sean kindly. “You've got to pull yourself together.”

Henry took a deep breath and straightened his beret. “You're right,” he said. “Follow me.”

“What sort of transportation will we be taking?” asked Tyler.

“Transportation?” said Henry with a furrowed brow.

“I think we're walking,” said Nicola to Tyler.

“How long will that take us?” frowned Shimlara.

“We shall
run
!” cried Henry passionately.

“Oh, well, that's not really necâ” began Nicola.

But Henry had already run off, his paint-splattered smock billowing behind him.

“Good-bye, my brave darling!” cried his wife, her hands clasped together. Then she said under her breath, “This will make such a wonderful scene in my novel.
His smock billowed like the sail of a boat . . .
No, that's not quite right.”

The Space Brigade had no choice but to run after Henry, their backpacks bouncing against their shoulders, the desserts they'd eaten sitting heavily in their stomachs.

Henry ran straight up a hill. His skinny legs leaped nimbly over hedges as he carefully avoided crushing flowers.

“He's very fit for an artist,” panted Katie.

“I think I'm going to be sick,” moaned Sean. His face was green in the starlight. “I might have overdone it on the desserts.”

“Are we going to run the whole way there?” groaned Greta.

“They must have
some
sort of transport on this planet,” wheezed Tyler.

“What's wrong with running?” Shimlara jogged effortlessly up the hill on her long legs.

Nicola couldn't speak. She was too busy trying to breathe. Long-distance running wasn't her thing.

After what seemed like at least an hour of solid running, Henry suddenly stopped.

He was down on his hands and knees on the shore of a river, scooping up water to drink with cupped hands, when the Space Brigade caught up with him.

“Isn't this exhilarating?” cried Henry when he saw them arrive.

The Space Brigade fell to their knees, breathing heavily. Sean dipped his face in the water and lapped it up like an exhausted dog. As Nicola drank the cool, refreshing water, she could feel beads of sweat running down her back. Her tired legs felt like jelly. She didn't know how much longer she could keep running.

“Now we just follow the river,” said Henry. “All the way to Griddlemill.”

“How long should that take?” asked Shimlara.

BOOK: War on Whimsy

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