Nick Klaus and the Incurable Jumblelium, Page 2

sack. Following Mr. Crutchfield’s long and firm gait, the fish-head domestics carried Nick across the long Nick Klaus corridor and down the platform elevator. Within minutes, the group was back on the main floor of the Grand Library. With their long and spiny legs, they marched like soldiers, fast and determined. Through the tear in the sack, Nick caught glimpses of the familiar scenery he had discovered on his own, the green dewy policemen standing motionless near the elevator platforms, the slow moving red-faded librarians hauling their bulging library carts, dozens of crowded bureaus where the frantic blue foggy policemen scurried about, and once in a while a platoon of yellow misty policemen marching alongside Mr. Crutchfield’s group. Nick watched powerless, unable to scream or move. Even if he had been able, Mr. Crutchfield would have made some kind of excuse, that his domestics had captured an escaped character who had to be returned to his section and more importantly, his novel, at once.

  “At the count of three, we turn left!” Mr. Crutchfield said pointing at the large sign for the Committee of Revisions Hall. Despairing, Nick took a voracious interest in the people passing by. He hoped that someone would be as curious as he was and would want to find out what was inside the bulging sack the disciplined domestics were carrying. But no one did. In fact, everyone appeared to be working against him. At times, the yellow misty policemen would stop traffic, parting people to let the exuberant Mr. Crutchfield and his dour domestics parade through the floor, and on and on the group walked accompanied by Nick’s growing distress.

  Nick tried to shift the tear in the sack towards the front, but the hole looked straight into Mr. Crutchfield’s back. As they walked (and walked) for hours to reach the Committee of Revisions hall, located in the Grand Library, Nick surrendered to the idea that he was a prisoner. There was no way out. Besides, the rocking made him so sick that he held his body still at the bottom of the sack so as not to throw up.

  He was only shaken up later when he felt his back hitting the hard cold ground. Had they arrived at the Committee? At first, all he saw were messy lines of complainers and yellow misty policemen keeping them in order. Jabbing people with their long pencils, they herded the line towards an enormous double door. The voice of a demented croaking creature, like an angry parrot, could be heard echoing with sharp outbursts in a room nearby. It must be his Supreme Eminent Editor, Nick concluded. A fierce and feared authority. He heard Mr. Crutchfield’s raise his voice and demand a new hearing for his case so unjustly dismissed. A woman with a pink scarf around her hair expressed her surprise at the file Mr. Crutchfield lay down on her desk.

  “Your case was closed more than eighty years ago. That’s an unusual amount of time to file for a petition for revisions.”

  “Now you understand what a terrible injustice I have suffered from the hands and will of his wicked energumen.” He turned round and pointed at Nick peering at him from the bag. The woman behind the counter leaned over her desk and grimaced. She disappeared behind her counter and reappeared seconds later in the back, climbing up a ladder to search through a column of tiny drawers. She was overweight and wore ballet shoes and a pink tutu, from which a long tiger tail dangled. Her heavy weight and silly shoes made the rungs of the ladder bend. She turned towards Mr. Crutchfield waving a file. “Lucky you.”

  “Luck?” said Mr. Crutchfield taking an offended air and loud enough for everyone to hear. “Justice speaks at long last. I haven’t been able to go back into my novel to reclaim the rightful ownership of my circus. Instead I’ve been forced to live in some damp and dark closet hiding from the judgments and rejections of my peers who believe me to be unworthy of their company, a fraud to the world, while I retained my integrity and knew of my innocence all along.”

  Immune to his plight, the woman in the tutu ran through the file she had brought down. “There’s a note from the Council. Last time you were here, there was some sort of problem with a list of animals apparently?”

  Mr. Crutchfield stiffened at first and forced a smile to hide his annoyance. “My accountant made a mistake on the list. It all has been straightened up since.”

  “Not according to this.” She kept on reading the note while Mr. Crutchfield remained fierce as ever. He was not willing to suffer another minute of injustice.

  “It says here you retrieved too many animals. More than you were accused of losing,” she continued.

  “I explained to the committee I was a victim. I never lost them,” Mr. Crutchfield said stomping his left foot. “The creature inside this bag stole them from me.”

  “It says here that you mistreated your animals at your circus and they escaped.”

  Mr. Crutchfield’s lips disappeared inside his mouth as he tried to contain his rage. “I wouldn’t be surprised if this vermin did not edit the register that demonstrates what a good character I am.”

  She pondered his words, holding a stamp over his petition, warily.

  “Understand my humiliation. Imagine having the animals of your very story deserting their book? And everyone believing I’m guilty and a monster, while the real monster in this bag is . . .” Pretending to be so hurt that he could not finish his sentence, he pointed once more at Nick and then raised his finger above his head. “Today, I’ll tell his Supreme Eminent Editor what the truth really is.” Lowering his righteous finger, Mr. Crutchfield pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pretended to dry his eyes. “My name must be cleared at once.”

  Moved by the plea, the woman in the tutu nodded and stamped Mr. Crutchfield’s form flat on her counter. She hurried to sponge her eyes, and Mr. Crutchfield snatched the form and kissed and brandished it for the world to see.

  Within seconds a yellow misty policeman barged through the door. His book helmet shined like gold. The fringes of his epaulettes sparkled under the numerous lights.

  “Next case: the Committee of Revisions, under the supervision of his most distinguished and honorary arbitrator, his Supreme Eminent Editor of the Grand Library of Books United versus said Wynthrop C. Crutchfield.”

  Upon hearing this Nick saw a ray of hope brighten his situation. Could luck be on his side after all? He was taken to The Committee of Revisions, the place and only place where he could argue his case that he belonged to the real world and had nothing to do with this ludicrous world of the Grand Library where he was now stuck. Per chance, he could prove it. The report was still in his pocket.

  Without being begged twice, Mr. Crutchfield stepped into the Committee of Revisions hall, trailed by his four domestics lugging the sack with Nick inside. The hall was gigantic and reminded Nick of the lobby of the Crutchfield and Fieldcrutch mansions. Large tables formed a U-shape and sheltered men in silver sparkling wigs wearing black dresses with a blazon representing the cover of a blurred book on their chests. Each member bore a different blazon with the embroidered words Eminent Proofreader. No one smiled when Mr. Crutchfield saluted them and the domestics dropped Nick at the steps of the massive golden and crimson throne, where a grimacing man in a white gown and folded white wings sat with his back straight, his hands clinging to the two parrot heads carved on his armrests. With his large hooked nose and grumpy fish mouth, he looked like a bitter white parrot. Nick looked at the strange spectacle with both dread and wonder. How to get someone’s attention with a mouth gagged and hands tied? A chair rattled behind him, and a commending voice declared:

  “What is it thou wantest?” said the voice. Nick noticed a domestic rushing past him with Mr. Crutchfield’s form in his hands, which he passed over to the members. A long silence ensued, during which the great white parrot gaped at Mr. Crutchfield, his reptilian eyes narrowing and widening as he breathed. The voice read the form. Nick could hear when its owner turned the pages on a file.

  “Thou claimest injustice and repair. Where is the proof of thy claim?” the voice said.

  “Right here,” said Mr. Crutchfield, pointing his finger at the sack bathing in a ray of sunlight, his voice thundering in
the enormous hall. A series of chairs scraped the ground as the members of the committee rose to have a better look at the sack.

  “What dost thou say? A sack of potatoes is responsible for kidnapping animals from thy circus?” said a member weaving his fingers nervously. Nick shook his head furiously, but no one could see him.

  “What dost thou say? K-i-d-n-a-p-p-i-n-g, kidnapping?” said his Supreme Eminent Editor with a disapproving voice. No one dared to comment. Mr. Crutchfield bowed, sweeping his right arm in front of him.

  “Your highest Editor, no indeed. The sack didn’t cause me harm or injury, but the content of the sack did.”

  Mr. Crutchfield snapped his fingers, and Nick felt hands pulling at the sack and within seconds found himself standing in front of the great white parrot, which upon seeing him flapped its wings, which made the pages on the tables of the members twirl all over the floor. His entourage imitated him though no one else had wings. Whispers and hums shot from one end of the table to the next and back. Nick stood in front of the crowd fidgeting and whimpering. Now was the time to fight for his life. Mr. Crutchfield’s chuckles smothered his attempts at being heard.

  “Here stands the most evil