first it was nothing more than a mist hanging over the City, a slight haziness
really. People hardly noticed it was there. But the more the clocks dictated
people’s every move — when to rise, when to eat, when to sleep — the darker
the Shadow grew. The Shadow was darkest right above the tower, forming an
impenetrable lid over the City. Before Chronos had arrived, every day had a
rhythm, and the sun, moon, and stars kept the beat. Now there was no sun,
moon, or stars to be seen. The Shadow had taken the place of the sky.
That’s when the Great Moodler disappeared.
“High time!” said some who were glad to see her go.
“Better late than never,” said others philosophically.
“It was only a matter of time,” advised the Committee smugly.
Everyone had an opinion about where she’d gone. Some said she was
banished. Others said she was lost in her own thoughts and couldn’t find her
way out. No one knew for sure. Either way, she was never seen again.
“That’s it? That’s the story of the Great Moodler?” Penelope stared at Dill,
willing him to continue.
Dill nodded. “That’s it.”
“Chronos took over and she disappeared?”
“Poof!” Dill waved his hands in the air. “Just like that.”
“What about the Remote Possibility?” cried Penelope.
Dill shook his head sadly. “After the Great Moodler disappeared, the
Remote Possibility shrank down to nothing. It hasn’t been seen for ages.”
Penelope sat in stunned silence. While listening to the story of the Great
Moodler, a feeling of excitement had taken hold of her. The Great Moodler was
an expert problem solver and a creative genius. If anyone could get her ideas
flowing again, it was her! With her ideas back, Penelope could figure out how
to make her dreams of being a writer come true. She could even figure out a
way to get home, if she wanted to. Anything was possible!
But the Great Moodler was gone. And only 217 things were possible.
“I told you leaving was highly unlikely,” continued Dill. “Now you know
why. If Chronos knew you were here, he’d declare your arrival Impossible and
whisk you away to the tower.”
“I see what you mean,” said Penelope in a daze.
chapter six
Dill leaned across the table and gave her arm a gentle squeeze. “It’s
not so bad here. As long as we stay away from the City, we can moodle all
we want. Besides, it sounds like your Spicewood Estates are overrun with
Clockworkers.”
Penelope gave him a weak smile. She couldn’t bear to tell him the truth.
Staying wasn’t the problem. She liked it here. There was no daily schedule to
follow or work-flow diagram to dictate her days. The problem was moodling.
Maybe Dill could moodle all he wanted, but she couldn’t. Her ideas were stuck.
And with the Great Moodler gone, they were likely to stay that way.
“Dill?” said Penelope, her heart caught in her chest. “Have you ever tried
to find the Great Moodler?”
Dill’s shoulders slumped and his eyes glistened with what looked like
tears. “Of course I’ve tried! I was looking for her when I bumped into you. I’ve
moodled for days, weeks, months. I can’t come up with a single idea, much less
a real possibility as to where she is. I’m afraid it’s hopeless. Useless. Absolutely
futile.”
Penelope thought about all the bad story ideas she’d come up with in the
last few weeks and the blank wall her mind had eventually become. She knew
exactly how he felt.
“I don’t know what happened,” said Dill, wiping his eyes with a handker-
chief. “I used to be a great explorer. I could find anything — absolutely anything.”
He glanced up at Penelope with a wry smile. “I was the one who found the
Remote Possibility, you know.”
Penelope’s mouth dropped open. “You were?”
“Oh, yes. Distant memories, buried dreams, lost hopes — I found them
all. I was a real hero in those days. You should have heard the people cheering
when I came back from an expedition. But that’s all over now. Exploring has
been declared a waste of time and therefore Impossible by decree of Chronos. I
haven’t found anything in ages.” Dill sighed a deep, unhappy sigh. He stared
down at the floor, his shoulders still hunched. A moment later, he
popped up and stared at Penelope, as if seeing her for the
very first time. “Maybe you could give it a try.”
Penelope glanced around. “Give what a try?”
Dill ignored her question. “Don’t go anywhere.
I’ll be right back . . .” He rushed out of the room
and soon returned with a small, shiny object.
“What is it?” asked Penelope.
“It’s a moodle hat.” Dill gave the hat a quick snap of the
wrist and the top popped up. It was shaped like a bowl with
a flat rim about three inches wide. He handed the hat gently
to Penelope, who examined it. It was made of some sort of
silvery mesh material. “How does it work?” she asked.
Dill leaned forward, his eyes practically glowing. “Now that is a very good
question. On the outside, it looks ordinary. Unremarkable. Extremely plain.
But on the inside, it couldn’t be more fantastic. The lining is full of very small,
very sophisticated traps — sticky snatchers, grabby gadgets, spring-loaded
snappers — the works!”
Penelope peered under the hat to see the traps.
“You can’t see anything,” explained Dill. “It’s all microscopic. You’ll never
guess what the traps do. Never, ever. So, I’ll just have to tell you. They trap
ideas, Penelope! All those glorious ideas, streaming and bubbling out of your
head, all the ideas you couldn’t keep ahold of, until . . . snap!” He flung his
arms open wide, then slammed his hands together. “The moodle hat traps them
for good!
“Imagine!” said Dill, walking wildly about. “The biggest, fattest, grandest
ideas are all yours and the skinny, scrawny ones escape into the stratosphere,
where they can fatten up a bit before dropping down and lodging in someone
else’s head.” Dill spun around to face her. “Without this hat I never would
have found the Remote Possibility. And now you can use it to find the
Great Moodler!”
“Me?” squeaked Penelope.
“Yes, you. Ever since Chronos took over and the Great Moodler
disappeared, I’ve felt lost. And how can I find anyone, if I can’t find myself?
But you,” said Dill, giving Penelope’s arm a little shake, “you might be able to
moodle up an idea of where she went.”
Dill looked so hopeful, Penelope couldn’t bear to tell him that there was
no chance of her coming up with a little idea, much less a big one. “You go first,”
she said, stalling for time. “To show me how it’s done.”
“All right.” Dill took the hat and put it on. He hurried over to the couch
and lay down, propping his head up on the armrest. “Hmmm . . .” he said, tap-
ping his cheek with a long finger, “where is the Great Moodler?”
Penelope sat down on a moss-covered chair to watch. Her feet dangled to
the floor and she tapped them nervously. T
ap. Tap. Tap. There was no way she
would be of any help. Tap. Tap. Tap. She might come up with a few lame
fantasies, but she was all out of good ideas. Dill was sure to be disappointed.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Dill glared at her.
“Sorry,” she mouthed.
Penelope sat as still as she could, almost not daring to breathe, and waited.
After a while, Dill closed his eyes and Penelope thought he had fallen asleep. But
every once in a while he’d scrunch his mouth or tweak his nose and the waiting
would continue. Watching someone do nothing made Penelope sleepy and soon
her head began to dip and sway in a lazy arc. Snap! She yanked herself back to
attention. But her head dipped again . . . and again. Before long she lost the
struggle and fell into a light sleep, her head resting on her chest.
“Drat! Fiddlesticks! Gosh darn it all!”
Penelope jerked awake. “What’s wrong?” she asked, trying to sound alert.
“I don’t have any ideas,” said Dill. “None. Zero. Absolute zilch! It’s just
like before.”
“Try staring out a window,” offered Penelope.
“I don’t have any windows,” grumbled Dill. He took off the hat and held it
out to Penelope. “Here, you try. My mind is blank.”
Penelope knew the feeling all too well. She took the hat and held it in her
lap for a moment. “What am I supposed to do again?” she asked.
“You don’t do anything,” insisted Dill. “If you do something you’ll muck it
all up. Just let your mind wander and the hat will capture any big ideas. But
don’t think too hard. And absolutely no analyzing, cogitating, or figuring of
any kind.”
Penelope slowly raised the hat up to her head. There’s no way this is going to
work, she said to herself. I’m all out of ideas. I don’t know what I’m doing. I hope Dill
won’t be mad and —
Penelope’s last thought was cut off as she lowered the hat onto her head.
She heard, or rather felt, a soft whir-whir.
“Now, ask yourself where the Great
Moodler is,” whispered Dill. “But remember,
no thinking! Just let your mind go.”
Penelope tried to concentrate on the
question while at the same time not thinking.
It felt like she was trying to open a door and
shut it at the same time. Sometimes a thought
floated by — I wonder what the Great Moodler
looks like or My foot is falling asleep. But for the
most part, nothing came to mind. Penelope
stared at the nothing. It was bright and beau-
tiful. Somehow it made her feel peaceful.
Whir-whir-whir . . . The longer she
stared at the nothing, the faster the whirring
sound went.
Does the whirring mean it’s working? she wondered. If so, where are all the ideas?
Penelope let these thoughts slip away and for a minute (or was it an hour?)
she slipped away with them. Just then she felt a snap. It vibrated through her
body and brought her back to reality. She opened her eyes.
Dill was staring at the hat. “That’s really something,” he said in a
hushed voice.
Penelope slowly lowered the hat from her head. It had grown! The silvery
mesh material had stretched to the size of a beach ball. Something like a huge
bubble struggled to get out. And then — pop! — just like that, it disappeared.
Dill turned quickly to Penelope. “So what’s the big idea?” he demanded.
Penelope shrugged. “I — I don’t know.”
“You mean, nothing came to mind?”
“Nothing,” said Penelope.
“Nothing? Like nil? Nada? Diddly-squat?”
Penelope nodded.
Dill’s shoulders sagged. “Oh, well. I suppose the bubble is just an
anomaly. We’ll try again in the morning.”
Penelope wondered what anomaly meant. She decided it must be another
word for failure.
After the soufflé dish and silverware were washed and put away, Dill escorted
Penelope down a long hall, stopping before a door made of dark wood. Inside
was a bed made from the roots of a tree growing directly overhead. The roots,
which extended down into the room, had been coaxed into the shape of a large,
intricately woven basket. The bed, or basket, as it were, was piled ridiculously
high with pillows and blankets.
“Sleep well,” said Dill.
“Good night,” said Penelope and closed the door.
Penelope sat down on the edge of the bed and took out her notebook. She
added moodle to her list of fascinating words. She also added anomaly. Next to
anomaly, she wrote the word failure and a question mark. Afterward, she jotted
down the important moments of her day — the hole in her schedule, meeting
Dill, the story of the Great Moodler — before slipping off her shoes and
crawling under the covers.
The bed rocked back and forth ever so slightly as if the tree above her was
swaying in the breeze. The gentle movement should have put Penelope right to
sleep, but it didn’t. Instead, she lay there thinking about her mother. When her
mother had a problem, she got organized. But Penelope wasn’t very good at
chapter seven
coming up with schedules, action items, and agendas. The only thing she was
any good at was moodling, and now she was even a failure at that!
Why can’t I come up with any ideas?
Where did they all go?
Penelope rolled over onto her side and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to
clear her head.
Dill will be so disappointed.
Penelope sat up. She punched her pillow a few times, then lay back down.
But as soon as she closed her eyes, the worries started streaming in.
I’ll moodle and moodle and nothing will happen . . .
Pop.
Except Chronos will probably catch me . . .
Pop-pop.
And send me to the clock tower!
Penelope was so consumed with the process of worrying that she hardly
noticed a very soft popping sound coming from nearby.
I’ll starve in the tower or catch pneumonia . . .
Pop-pop.
Or turn into a Clockworker . . .
Pop-pop-pop.
And never be a writer!
Poppity-pop-pop.
Each new worry spawned another worry. And another. Soon they were
coming so fast Penelope couldn’t keep up. She tossed and turned late into the
night. It wasn’t until she fell into a fitful sleep that the worries ceased and
the popping grew silent.
— — —
Penelope woke before dawn to the smell of burnt toast. After stumbling around
a bit, she managed to find her notebook and shoes, then made her way to the
kitchen.
“Good morning! Ready for . . .” Dill’s voice trailed off. He put down the
honey jar he was holding and hurried toward Penelope. “Did you sleep all right?”
“Not really,” she said, stifling a yawn. “I stayed up half the night worrying
about finding the Great Moodler.”
“I can see that.” Dill took Penelope by the shoulders, turning her this way
and that. “It’s written all over your face.”
Penelope put a hand up to her
cheek and gasped. She felt bumps. She
touched her forehead, nose, and chin. Bumps, bumps, and more bumps. “What
happened to me?” she cried.
Dill gripped her shoulder. “I’ll tell you on one condition.”
“Okay,” said Penelope, her heart racing.
“You have to promise me not to worry.”
If Penelope hadn’t been so dazed, she might have protested. Instead, she
limply crossed her heart. “I promise.”
Dill dragged Penelope over to the living room and sat her down. He
turned to a cabinet nearby and took out a mirror, holding it against his chest.
“Remember, you promised not to worry.”
Penelope nodded and held out her hand. Dill gave her the mirror.
She immediately forgot her promise. Her face was covered with bumps —
wrinkly red bumps. “I have a disease!” she screamed, and right before her
eyes —
pop, pop, pop — three more appeared on her nose.
“You promised not to worry!” shrieked Dill and snatched the mirror away.
Penelope snatched it right back. “How can you tell me not to worry? I’ve
got bumps all over my face!”
“Those aren’t bumps. They’re worry warts. If we had a magnifying glass
you’d see they’re made of teeny-tiny words spelling out your troubles. The
more you worry, the worse they get.”
Penelope wasn’t listening. She was staring at her reflection. I’m going
through the rest of my life covered in ugly red warts, she thought. I’ll never be able to
show my face in public again! A few more warts squeezed onto her forehead —
Pop! Pop! Her face was in danger of disappearing altogether.
Dill knelt down beside Penelope. “Quick! Tell me what you were worried
about.”
Penelope dragged her eyes away from the mirror and tried to focus.
“Please,” pleaded Dill. “It’s important you remember.”
Penelope closed her eyes and tried to make a list. “Being captured by
Chronos . . . wasting away in the tower . . . catching pneumonia . . . starving
to death . . .” She peeked out of one eye.