Akiko in the Sprubly Islands
For my wife, Miki.
“Zutto zutto”
A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, many thanks are due to Robb Horan, Larry Salamone, and Joseph Michael Linsner of Sirius Entertainment, whose faith in Akiko and the gang has remained steadfast through many a hair-raising adventure. I must thank not one but two editors: Lawrence David, who, with his usual wisdom and grace, got this book off to the best possible start, and Fiona Simpson, who cheerfully supplied the guidance and encouragement I needed to make it across the finish line. I am very much indebted to Andrew Smith, who was among the very first to envision Akiko as a series of children’s books, and whose support was instrumental in getting the project off the ground. Thanks also to Debora Smith for patiently listening to my requests to put “this drawing here, and that drawing . . . right there!” A big bouquet of thank-yous for the following friends of Akiko at Random House Children’s Books: Judith Haut, Daisy Kline, Angela Adams, So Lin Wong, Kerry Moynagh, Barbara Perris, and Gabriel
X. Ashkenazi. And finally, big kisses for my wife, Miki, followed by little kisses for my son, Matthew, who (when he’s old enough to read) will, I hope, find this book to his liking.
I opened my eyes.
I’d been sleeping so soundly that for the first few seconds I had no idea where I was. Then it slowly came back to me: I was on the planet Smoo with my new friends Spuckler Boach, Gax, Mr. Beeba, and Poog. We were floating peacefully above the clouds on our little flying boat, resting up before the next leg of our journey.
I was a little embarrassed to notice that everyone else was already awake. Mr. Beeba was steering the boat, Poog was floating quietly by himself just behind the mast, and Spuckler was giving Gax a little tune-up. (After all that poor robot had been through lately, I’m sure he needed it.)
“Hey there, Akiko,” said Spuckler, smiling as always. “How ya doin’? Feels good to get a little shut-eye, don’t it?”
“Yeah,” I said, yawning and stretching my arms. “How long was I asleep?”
“Not
particularly
long,” Mr. Beeba said, turning his head to join the conversation. “You’ve nothing to be ashamed of, dear girl. I would encourage you to get all the rest you can.”
“Yeah, ’Kiko,” Spuckler agreed, “ ’Cause there ain’t nothin’
else
to do on this boat.”
“You have
entirely
misconstrued the meaning of my statement, Spuckler,” Mr. Beeba said wearily.
“I’m
right
though,” Spuckler insisted.
“You most certainly are
not
,” Mr. Beeba answered. He was never one to pass by a good argument with Spuckler. And who was I to stop him? Watching the two of them go at it was as good as any television show. Poog was interested too, apparently. He floated over and gave himself a good view of the debate.
“I’m sure there are any
number
of interesting activities for an intelligent child like Akiko to do on a boat such as this,” Mr. Beeba continued.
“Name two,” Spuckler grunted, tightening a bolt on Gax’s underside.
“Well,” Mr. Beeba began, “she could practice memorizing the names of all the books I’ve written—”
“That don’t count,” Spuckler interrupted. “You said
interesting
.”
“She could follow
that
up,” Mr. Beeba continued, ignoring Spuckler for the moment, “by memorizing passages from the books themselves.”
“Well, that just proves my point,” said Spuckler victoriously. “There ain’t nothin’ for ’Kiko to do on this boat but
sleep
.” Gax clicked and whirred quietly as Spuckler tightened another bolt underneath his helmet.
“Hmpf!” Mr. Beeba snorted, apparently losing interest in the argument. There was a long pause, during which neither of them said anything. I found myself staring at the clouds and secretly agreeing with Spuckler.
After a long while I saw some orange-winged creatures flying overhead. They were the same creatures I’d seen way back when we’d just begun our journey.
“Hey, look, Mr. Beeba,” I said, pointing up at them as they passed over us. “There’s some more of those reptile-bird things you were telling me about before.”
“Yumbas, Akiko.
Yumbas
,” he replied, sounding slightly disappointed that I hadn’t remembered the name. “An odd species, actually. All Yumbas fly in precisely the same direction by instinct. Northeast, I believe. Or was it southwest? Well, in any case, it is said that the average Yumba literally circles the planet once every fourteen days.”
“No kidding,’’ I said, shielding my eyes from the sun as I watched the Yumbas fly off into the distance. “Where I come from, birds fly in pretty much any direction they want.” I thought for a moment about my science teacher, Mrs. Jackson, back at Middleton Elementary. She had this big lesson plan one time about birds and how they fly south in the winter. She actually took us out into the school yard so that we could see real birds flying south. We didn’t end up seeing anything, though, and all I remember is how cold it was and how I wanted to get back into the classroom as quickly as possible.
I leaned back on my elbows and looked up at the clouds again, wondering what direction the Yumbas were flying in. I wondered if they got tired of seeing the same scenery over and over again.
Then a really weird thing happened. A second flock of Yumbas passed overhead, and I thought for sure they were crossing over us in a slightly different direction. The time before, they had come from the left-hand side of the ship and had flown across to the right. This time it was just a little more from the front of the ship, heading toward the back, I sat there and waited to see if more Yumbas would pass overhead.
Sure enough, another group flew over us, and this time it was even more obvious that they were changing direction.
“Hey, Mr. Beeba,” I said, “I think you might be wrong about those Yumbas.”
“Me?” Mr. Beeba asked, as if I’d just proposed something altogether impossible.
“Wrong?”
“It’s nothing personal, Mr. Beeba,” I explained cautiously. “I just think that maybe sometimes they fly in more than one direction.”
“
Really
, Akiko,” Mr. Beeba clucked disapprovingly, “It’s one thing to postulate a theory contrary to my own, but quite another to do so without offering any proof whatsoever to back it up.”
“Well, look up there and see what I’m talking about,” I said, pointing at yet another group of Yumbas in the sky. Mr. Beeba coughed, cleared his throat, and watched as they passed over us, this time coming a little from the right and heading slightly to the left.
There was a long, awkward silence as Mr. Beeba followed the path of the Yumbas with his eyes.
“Inconceivable!” he said at last, scratching agitatedly at his head. “Yumbas
never
change direction.”
“Now, wait a gol-darned second here,” Spuckler said, jumping to his feet.
Mr. Beeba and I turned around to face him, a little surprised that he had any interest whatsoever in the conversation. Spuckler paced back and forth across the deck, looking up at the clouds and down at the Moonguzzit Sea beneath us, a very grim expression coming over his face. Gax watched him nervously, as if experience had taught him to be prepared for sudden drastic changes in Spuckler’s mood.
“Those birds ain’t changin’ directions,” he announced. “
We
are!”
“Us?” Mr. Beeba asked, his eyes widening. “You mean the
ship
? Don’t be ridiculous!” There was a slightly uneasy sound in his voice, though, as if some terrible truth had just begun to dawn on him.
“We’re goin’ around in
circles
is what we’re doin’,” Spuckler said, now starting to sound angry. “No
wonder
we been flyin’ all this time and we still ain’t past the Moonguzzit Sea!”
“F-flying in circles?” Mr. Beeba stuttered. “Nonsense! I’ve been steering this ship in an absolutely straight line!”
“You don’t get it, do ya, Beebs?” Spuckler exclaimed, throwing his arms up in the air. “We are lost!
L-A-W-S-T
, lost!”
“We . . . ,” Mr. Beeba began, trying rather desperately to defend himself, “we’d have
finished
this mission by now if your Sky Pirate friends hadn’t destroyed all my books!”
“Aw, you an’ your stupid books!” Spuckler said. He was actually kind of shouting. “You ain’t in your cozy little
library
anymore, Beebs. This is
reality
out here—take a good look!”
This argument seemed more serious than the little spats I’d seen so far, and I figured if I didn’t interrupt they’d end up throwing punches or something. I cleared my throat and jumped in between the two of them.
“Look, we’re never going to get anywhere if you two don’t stop
arguing
all the time!”
Without even a pause, they stopped, turned, pointed at each other, and said (at exactly the same time), “
He
started it.”
Honestly! You’d think they were first-graders or something.
“I don’t care
who
started it,” I said, putting on my best bossy voice and wagging a finger in front of both of them. “I’m in charge of this mission and I
order
you to stop fighting.”
And it worked, too. They both got quiet and just stared at the deck for a minute. A soft breeze blew over us and flapped through the sails as I allowed the silence to continue a little bit longer. The sun was getting lower in the sky, and we were all covered in a warm yellow glow.
“All right,’’ I said finally. “We’re going to sit right down here and have a little meeting.”
“A meetin’?” Spuckler asked, with obvious disapproval.
“Yes. We’re going to talk about how we got into this mess. Then we’re going to find a way out of it.” This was a little trick I’d learned from my history teacher, Mr. Moylan, back at Middleton Elementary. He said you always need to have a little meeting like this whenever you’re in a tough situation and you can’t figure out what to do next. Under the circumstances I think he’d have agreed this was a pretty good time to follow his advice.