The Boy from Earth by Richard Scrimger Read Free Book Online Page B

you know the tree's name?” I ask him.
    –
There's a birch tree outside my window. Her name's Casey too. All birch trees are named Casey. Just like Casey here. Isn't that right, girl? Hey?
    Casey shivers a bit at the sound of its name.
    I pat the trunk I'm leaning against, the way you'd pat a dog's head. “Wait a minute,” I say. “Is Casey a boy or a girl?”
    – It's a tree, Dingwall. Didn't you pay attention in science class? It's a boy and a girl. Aren't you, Casey? Aren't you a good boy? Yes, you are! Aren't you a good girl? Yes, you are!
    The tree wags its branches again. Norbert pats it. I do it too, hesitantly, because I'm not used to strange trees.
    We eat a snack sitting in Casey's branches. I worry about bothering the tree, sitting on it, dropping crumbs, but Norbert assures me that there's no problem.
    –
Trees like to be useful
, he says.
    So we sit on the branch and eat strange sandwiches. They taste like chocolate bars from a delicatessen. Pretty good, but, well, strange.
    “What kind of sandwiches are these?” I ask.
    –
Smoked chocolate.
    I take another bite. Okay, I guess. I take out the jar. “Can I drink this?”
    –
Of course, you can. It's a liquid. You can't grate it or shred it. You can't read it or drive it. Your options are limited.
    I take off the lid, and pull back my face. “Yuck!” I say. “It smells awful.”
    –
But it works. Your feet will feel better immediately
.
    “Huh?”
    –
If you decide not to drink it, I might recommend rubbing it on your feet. They're working harder than usual today.
    Casey gives a whine. That's the only way to describe it. It's a bit like the creaking noise a tree makes in a windstorm. Norbert sits up straight.
    –
What, girl? What is it?
    The tree's long thin light greenish leaves turn over, showing their gray undersides.
    –
Is something coming, Casey?
    ROWF!
    –
Something bad?
    ROWF! ROWF!
    Norbert closes his knapsack and motions me to do the same.
    “Wow!” I say. “The tree understands.”
    It's like the dogs on TV that can add and answer the phone and spray the house with air freshener when they make a doggie mistake.
    “Thanks, Norbert,” I say. His hand's out to help. I let him take my sandwich container and the jar of brown liquid while I check the ground for intruders. I remember what he said about things being there, whether I saw them or not. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see his little hands fumbling with the top of my knapsack.
    Casey is barking continuously.
    –
Come on, Dingwall. Time to go.
    I freeze. The voice comes from behind me. I turn around. Norbert is facing away from me, wearing his knapsack, looking out through the foliage. One of his hands holds a smooth gray branch for support. The other hand is empty.
    Then, what the … I turn back in time to see a pair of hands lift my sandwich container into the air. Not a person with hands – just the hands. Four fingers and a thumb, just like mine, only they're not attached to anything. They flutter around, like giant butterflies, clinging to the sandwich container, lifting it into … thin air. The container, and the hands, fade from my sight, like breath on a mirror. They're gone.
    “Norbert, help!” I cry.
    Meanwhile, another set of hands is finishing with my knapsack. They start to lift it up. I've been frozen all this time, but now I move, grabbing the bottom.
    “Stop!” I cry. The hands do not stop. “Let go!” I cry. The hands do not let go. “Give that back!” I cry. Of course, the hands do nothing of the kind.
    –
Get away from me, you minions!
cries Norbert.
    The tree barks wildly.
    I pull the knapsack away from the hands. I feel more hands plucking at my bathrobe, pinching, pulling, tugging. I flail around, sweeping them out of the way. There are so many of them. It's nasty, like being inside a swarm of insects. I shoulder the knapsack, batting away the hands as fast as I can, and point my slippers, ready to fly away.
    –
Hey, Dingwall. Little