Mr. Chickee's Messy Mission Read online

  Mr. Bayliss hollered, “Get-up-uh, get on up!” then whistled. The dogs leapt to their feet and began running, Ahjah started pushing, and it was like a jet's afterburners kicked in as the sled nearly flew back into the land of ice and cold!

  Russell shivered and thought, “I sure wish I'd brought Richelle's friend Sweetie, the Great Morose Fire-Spewing Clabbernabber, and some cans of Boston baked beans. This place could really use a couple of good farts to warm it …,” but just then the cold hit him hard, and as any of you who have ever been suddenly dumped in the cold know, talking about a gas-passing dragon is about the last thing you want to do when you're worried about being turned into an icicle!

  Trapped in Buster B. Bayliss County!

  THE SLED HADN'T GONE twenty frozen feet when Buster B. Bayliss shouted, “Pull a lefty, my hefties!” and the lead dog veered sharply to the left, heading back into the warm street.

  Once the author pulled the sled to a stop, he said, “Look, young man, I've had a change of heart. A brother's got to do what a brother's got to do, and sometimes that in-volves admitting when you've done something wrong and apologizing. So I'm standing up to my obligation and I'm saying I'm terribly sorry I snatched you into the blizzard the way I just did. That was plain old wrong.”

  Russell hopped out of the sled and said, “Whew! Thank you, sir, no hard feelings. I'll just take Rodney Rodent and head back to Richie-Rich and Bucko and we can get started on their missions and—”

  Buster B. Bayliss said, “Ooh, big misunderstanding. I'm apologizing for snatching you into the blizzard the way I did, not for snatching you into the blizzard.”

  Russell sounded just like someone else we all know when he said, “Huh? I don't get it.”

  “I'm sorry for snatching you into the blizzard the way I did, unprepared. I've searched so long and hard for that wretched Ursa Theodora-Saura that I've got to admit I forgot one of the most important rules for living out here in the wilderness: Always be prepared. I simply forgot your blood isn't used to that snow. So now we'll head back to my summer camp to hunt you up some protective clothing.”

  Buster B. Bayliss's voice suddenly changed. A sadness was there because he knew the time was very close when he'd have to do something he really didn't want to. Something that went against his very nature. Something he'd been dreading since he'd started hunting the Ursa Theodora-Saura. Something he knew could only end in one tragic way.

  He was going to have to kill … or be killed.

  His eyes looked toward the winter wall and seemed to peer through the snow. He almost whispered, “Yes, we'll get you some clothes.”

  He sounded even sadder when he said, “And I'll have to bring it out.”

  His dark brown eyes bored even deeper into the snow and crinkled with sorrow. (And if your eyes have ever crinkled, you know how much that hurts!)

  He said, “Now it's the only thing that can end this reign of terror.”

  Russell couldn't help himself, a giant GULP! jumped from his throat.

  Buster B. Bayliss pulled Russell behind him into the forest.

  Deep into the woods.

  “Wow!” Russell said. “This is so coo—”

  That was all he got out before the North Country mosquitoes discovered him. One second he was breathing in humid, fecund forest air and the next second he was breathing in an army of bloodsuckers.

  His nostrils and his mouth and his ears were instantly filled; it was like he was swimming in a lake of them. In two seconds Russell gained eighty-five pounds. Eighty-five pounds of slurping, hungry, winged little devils.

  Buster B. Bayliss swung around, and looking through a million mosquito wings, Russell could see he'd lit a small coffee can filled with leaves. The smoke from the burning dried leaves washed over Russ and, just like that, the bugs left him alone.

  “Sorry, little buckaroo, I've been over on the cold side for so long it had completely slipped my mind that it was mosquito season over here in the warm side.”

  Russell blew a long, sticky, wet, squirming tube of mosquitoes out of the left side of his nose, then another one out of the right side. It took him five crunchy chews and two huge swallows to get down the bunch that had flown into his mouth.

  Buster B. Bayliss looked at the writhing, wriggling, twisting, jiggling, moist tubes of mosquitoes on the ground and the way Russell was licking his lips, and an expression of disgust washed over his face.

  Russell said, “Yum! What time of year is mos-kwee-toe season?”

  “Up here it generally runs from about December fifteenth of one year to December fourteenth of the next. But don't worry, once you get some of this smoke on you, they have no interest in biting anymore.”

  “Hmmm,” Russell said, “they taste kind of sweet. Sweet and tangy at the same time. But they could use a little salt.”

  Mr. Bayliss looked to the sky and muttered, “Please forgive me for thinking this kid was an Old Soul.”

  Russell said, “Mr. Bayliss, those mos-kwee-toes are real pains when they get in my ears and nose, but is there any way I can get them to fly straight into my mouth?”

  Buster B. Bayliss nearly choked. “What?”

  He took his fake-bearskin mitten and gave Russell a good pop on the back of his head.

  “Listen, buckaroo, if you don't quit this chatter-munk chattering and start concentrating on what we've got to do, I'll wear you out with this mitten!”

  Russell thought, “Sheesh, for a favorite author he sure is kind of grouchy.”

  The two walked through the woods in silence. For three hours they trudged down old game trails and along dried riverbeds and through thicket after thicket of forest. whileBuster B. Bayliss's educated eyes saw much, saw the great struggles of nature being played out, saw a multitude of near-invisible hidden animals carefully eyeing them, trying to assess if they were a danger, Russell's eyes saw two things only: Mr. Bayliss's back and the cloud of mosquitoes that still followed them just out of the reach of the smoke.

  Russell knew that for some strange reason Mr. B. had been on the verge of throwing up when he saw Russ chew the scrumptious mosquitoes, and it's one of those annoying things about adults that anything you do that makes them gag, they'll force you to stop doing, so he was being very careful not to let the great outdoorsman see that every time Buster B. Bayliss turned his back or disappeared behind a tree for a second, Russell would reach back and grab a handful of the mosquitoes and stuff them into his mouth.

  The real reason Russell wasn't talking was because he'd been properly raised by his parents and knew it was wrong to speak when his mouth was full. To tell the truth he was dying to say something, but the bugs were sooo good!

  The main thing Russell wanted to say to Mr. Bayliss was “Are we there yet?”

  He began slowing down, and Buster B. Bayliss thought, “I wonder why they'd send a soft little city boy to help me?” But the real reason Russell was lagging was because he'd eaten about thirty pounds of mosquitoes! And how fast do you think you could walk behind an author with that many bugs in your belly? Not very.

  Much to Russell's relief, Mr. B. finally said, “There she is. There's home. Home.”

  Buster B. Bayliss's voice echoed what was in his heart. It echoed the thought he couldn't force away. The thought that asked if this would be the last time he'd see this place. If maybe, after the great battle that was soon to happen, he'd never be able to come here again, he'd never be able to be again. If he too would finally know what it was like to be on the losing end of the ultimate kill-or-be-killed battle.

  Russell looked into the valley.

  His breath caught in his throat (or maybe a mosquito got a bite in on the way down; whatever it was, he stopped breathing for a second) when he saw how beautiful the author's home was.

  It looked like a wallpaper picture on a computer.

  A large log cabin sat in a clearing on a small rise. A pair of snowshoes, a set of antlers and a harness like the one the sled dogs had been attached to hung on the side of
the cabin. Underneath the only window on the front of the cabin was an upside-down sled about the same size as the one Rodney Rodent had been pushing.

  There was a rocking chair and table next to the front door. Right behind the cabin was another rocking chair and table, a bull's-eye target and a clothesline. About a mile farther back was a 125-foot waterfall! (Nowhere near as impressive as the 250-foot Kearsley Dam waterfall that Steven and Zoopy had jumped off of, but not bad.)

  Even from this distance Russell could hear the soothing, soft sound of water churning on rocks.

  He said, “Wow! That's so coo—”

  Buster B. Bayliss interrupted by almost whispering,

  “Home. Let's get this started.” He began trudging down the path leading to the cabin.

  Russell snatched a handful of mosquitoes and followed. He chewed, looked at his Oops-a-Daisy, swallowed and thought, “Man! Madam President is probably real worried about me. But escaping from Buster B. Bayliss and getting Rodney Rodent back shouldn't take more than a couple of hours, I'll be outta here in no time at all!”

  If that's what you're counting on, Russell Braithewaite Woods, sorry 'bout your luck!

  The only furniture in the cabin was a chair, a table with a big white bowl on it and a large wooden box tucked in one corner.

  “Uh-oh, Mr. B., looks like some B-and-E kids cleaned you out!”

  “Some who?”

  “Breaking-and-entering guys. It looks like they robbed all your stuff.”

  Buster B. Bayliss looked around the cabin. “Nothing's missing. I talk simple and I live simple. Everything needed is right here.”

  “Everything?”

  “Everything.”

  “Don't you ever go to the bathroom?”

  “What?”

  “You said you've got everything, but I don't see a bathroom in here.”

  Buster B. Bayliss shook his head. “Thirty feet behind the cabin, a perfectly good hole.”

  Russell didn't see what a hole had to do with a bathroom, but there were a lot of other things missing too.

  “Where's your bed?”

  “I sleep under the stars.”

  “And your stove and your fridge and your television and your DVD player and your radio and your—”

  Buster B. Bayliss put his hand to his ear again and said, “Hold on a minute …”

  Russell, being a great detective, knew what was going to happen next, so he was prepared when the fake-bearskin mitten popped the back of his head.

  “Oops!” Russell said. “I guess you were hearing a chattermunk, huh?”

  “Enough talk. Time to turn in. Up early tomorrow.”

  Russell said, “Uh, Mr. Bayliss, I hate to burp your bubble but …”

  He stopped and thought for a second. “Hmmm, if Mr. B. falls asleep, I'll be able to escape! I'll just pretend I'm snoozing, grab Rodney Rodent and leave!”

  Russell gave a big fake yawn and said, “Man! I'm really, really sleepy.”

  He looked at his Oops-a-Daisy and said, “I guess I have plenty of time to—”

  Buster B. Bayliss said, “What is that?”

  “My Oops-a-Daisy.”

  “That's what I thought.” He put his hand out.

  Russell took the Oops-a-Daisy off and handed it to the author.

  Buster B. Bayliss put the strange watch in his pocket.

  “You'll get it back when we're done. We're running on natural time now. No watches. No clocks. No Oops-a-Daisies.”

  Russell shrugged. He didn't really understand this thirty days/ninety-nine years stuff anyway. And besides, every time he looked at the Oops-a-Daisy, it just reminded him how much trouble he was going to be in when he saw Madam President.

  Buster B. Bayliss said, “There's a hammock out back, string it between two trees and sleep.”

  Soon Russell was in the hammock, gently swinging between two birch trees. Buster B. Bayliss lit a small fire, threw a sleeping bag on the ground and stretched out on the bag.

  “Sleep tight, buckaroo. Tomorrow we search for the first omen.”

  “What's that?”

  “They didn't tell you?”

  “Who's they?”

  “The people who sent you.”

  So many people had told Russell so many confusing things since the gnome snatched him that he was having a hard time remembering his own name.

  He said, “I guess they did, but I forgot.”

  “I'll tell you this once. You've been sent to help me stop the Ursa Theodora-Saura.”

  “I think I remember that part but I forgot why we've gotta stop him.”

  Buster B. Bayliss leaned on his left elbow and stared into the fire.

  “We have to stop him because if we don't, he won't be satisfied until he's killed every rabbit in the North Country and nearly every person.”

  “This thing kills bunnies?”

  “Viciously.”

  “How come you haven't caught him yet, Mr. Bayliss?”

  “The North Country is huge.”

  The author's eyes were drawn up as a shooting star streaked across the sky. He stared at the point where it seemed to disappear and said, “Village after village I've gone to, trying to stop him, but I'm always a day or two late. I'm always left to find the destruction, the carnage.”

  He tossed a twig into the fire. “There's no way to describe the feeling you get when you come to a village and find every man, woman and child has been torn to shreds.

  “Shreds! And this monster isn't killing for food either. He's killing for the sheer joy of destroying. That's why we've got to stop him. That's why you've been sent here.”

  Russell thought this was a pretty interesting story, but he was afraid he'd never find out how it ended, because as soon as the great woodsman fell asleep, Russ planned on being outta there!

  Buster B. Bayliss said, “The good news is you're here. That means that the battle will be sooner rather than later. One way or the other this nightmare is about to end.”

  Russell thought, “Nope, what that really means is there's gonna be a very, very surprised person when you wake up tomorrow and find me gone!”

  A shooting star caught Russell's attention too. He noticed how much brighter the stars were here and how many more of them there were and how much blacker the sky was. He could hear a stream slapping over rocks not too far away. He heard an owl sadly asking its question and an army of crickets gently chirping. There was something strange about the air too. It seemed like it was slipperier, like it slid deeper into him when he breathed in. And when he breathed out, it felt as if the air leaving his lungs was making him feel lighter and lighter.

  “Wow!” Russell groggily thought. “This is so coo …”

  Russell had been right. There was a very, very surprised person at Buster B. Bayliss's cabin early the next morning.

  It was a certain future detective from Flint, Michigan.

  “All right, buckaroo, up and at 'em.”

  Russell opened his eyes and blinked.

  “Excuse me, sir, there're still stars in the sky and it's still dark.”

  “Come on. I'm not sure when we'll get the omen that the end's near. You need to learn the woods. Need to learn to look for signs. Need to learn what's important out here.”

  Russell couldn't believe he'd fallen asleep and blown his chance to get away from his favorite author.

  But the sleep he'd had was so relaxing and beautiful that he wanted to know more about life outdoors.

  So the lessons began.

  And Russell was a great student.

  It's true that the sound of a fake-bearskin mitten slapping the back of a head was heard more than once or twice over the next six days, but the young Flintstone learned and grew. And the two became almost friends. Though few words were exchanged between them, they began to understand each other. (Well, I don't think if they spent sixty years together Buster B. Bayliss would understand half of the things that Russell thought about, but Russ understood the author, so that was enough.)


  And just six days after he'd planned his escape, a change had taken place in Russell. He was becoming more in tune with nature, he was becoming less of the soft city boy and more of the woodsboy. (And if that's not a word, it should be, along with woodsgirl, woodswoman, woodsbaby, woodscat and woodsdog. I'd draw the line at woodsroach, though.)

  Russell was becoming less of a pampered boy from Flint and more of something hard as stone. I guess you could say he was becoming less of a Flintstone and more of a stone flint. I guess you could say that, but it would probably be best if you didn't.

  But the changes weren't limited to Russell, they also happened to his new friend. A new sense of purpose seemed to come over Buster B. Bayliss, purpose and focus.

  Where before he'd been a man of few words, now he was a man of almost no words. Where before he'd been a sort of get-'er-done type of person, he was now a get-'er-done-and-don't-make-a-peep type of guy. Where before he'd been a total loner and completely independent, now he was still those things but he at least was putting up with Russell.

  Finally, the day Russell came back to the cabin with a stringer full of fish, Buster B. Bayliss broke the silence. He said, “You're ready.”

  He grabbed one of the shovels and simply said, “Shovel. Bring.”

  In his new awareness Russell understood this shortcut way of speaking.

  Without a sound he snatched up the other shovel and trudged behind the mountain man. They headed up the steepest hill, and after what seemed to him to be forever Russell finally said something in this new shorthand language.

  He said, “There. Yet. We?”

  Mr. B. responded, “Mouth. Close. Munk. Chatter.”

  They walked another half hour before Mr. B. put his hand up, checked his compass and walked north-northwest to a large pine tree. He then headed south-southwest for eight steps, pointed at the ground and said, “Dig.”

  Russell said, “Whew! Glad. I. Am.”

  Buster B. Bayliss said, “Enough Cat in the Hat talk, get busy.”

  The two began flipping shovelfuls of the rich forest floor over their shoulders. Before long Russell's shovel hit something that made a metal-on-metal sound. The scrapingsound surprised him but had a much deeper effect on Buster B. Bayliss.