Dormia (7 page)

"My dad was a mole rat?" Alfonso asked. "What does that mean?"

"It's a sporting term," explained Hill. "It involves a game called ballast. On any given ballast team, the mole rat is the most important position. He's a little bit like the quarterback in a football game."

"Still, I don't get it," said Alfonso. "Even if my father was a good mole rat, why are the Magrewskis so excited about
me
being here?"

"Because your father always played ballast in his sleep," explained Hill. "And the word is out that you are an even more talented sleeper than he was."

"How did that happen?" asked Judy suspiciously.

"I don't know," said Hill awkwardly. "I guess I might have said something of the sort to Dusty."

"Now listen here, Hill," said Judy. "In the future, you really shouldn't tell folks—" At that very moment, the door swung open and in walked Dusty with a big smile on his face.

"Hope I'm not disturbin' ya," said Dusty. "I won't be but a minute. I just have some quick business to discuss with ya."

"Business?" asked Judy.

"Well," said Dusty, "as ya may or may not know, tomorrow is our annual ballast match against the Popov Longshoremen, and so ya might say that yer timin' is auspicious—mighty auspicious. Ya see, once a year the Magrewskis face off against those miserable Popovs in a match that the whole island gathers to see. Unfortunately, for the last decade or so, we've been havin' a very bad losin' streak. Then, to make matters worse, our mole rat has just gone missin'. Chances are, he probably ran away out of fear of losin' again. The fink! Anyway, we could use some help from young Alfonso here. If he's half as good as his old man was, he might just lead us to victory. And, ya see, a victory is just what we need right now. People are startin' to lose faith in the Magrewskis. There's talk that we ain't as tough or clever as we once was. That's bad for business—mighty bad. And so I've got a little proposition for ya: Alfonso, if ya lead us to victory, I swear I'll get ya a spot on the vice admiral's boat to the Urals. What do ya say?"

"But I don't know the first thing about the game of ballast," began Alfonso. "So I really doubt I can do your team much good."

"That don't matter a lick," said Dusty. "Your father didn't know the first thing about ballast either, but the minute he fell asleep, he performed like a champ."

"This is a sorry business," declared Pappy, who up until now had been silent. "Hill is a grown man and he led us to this strange den of thieves. Let
him
be your blind mouse, or mole rat, or whatever you call it."

"I would if I could," said Hill dejectedly, "but I was never any good at it."

"It doesn't matter anyway," added Pappy. "Because neither Judy, nor Alfonso, nor I, nor any plant life that might be in our possession—
if you know what I mean
—is going to the Urals. For goodness sake, Hill doesn't even know where he is going."

"I do too!" said Hill. "We know the exact coordinates."

"I'd like to help," interjected Alfonso. "I mean, I guess I could give it a try..."

No one replied to Alfonso's half-hearted offer and instead a tense silence descended on the room.

"Tell me this," said Judy finally, "is this a dangerous game? I mean, could Alfonso get hurt playing it?"

Dusty didn't reply immediately. Instead, he looked at Hill for some indication of how to answer this question.

"Ballast just takes a little skill, that's all," said Hill confidently. "Alfonso will be perfectly safe."

***

The next morning, just before breakfast, Hill led Alfonso to a cleared area of the beach. In front of them sat the remains of a massive old Russian cargo ship known as the
Nyetbezkov.
The ship had run aground during a bad storm in the 1920s and had been sitting there ever since. The
Nyetbezkov
was enormous—at least three football fields long—and completely covered with rust. Entire pieces of the ship had fallen off, including the rotting skeleton of a lifeboat. Bits of torn-away metal lay scattered everywhere across the sand. The whole ship leaned heavily to one side. The only evidence of recent attention were two new rope ladders dangling off the side. These ladders, apparently, were the means by which brave souls climbed onto the ship. But why would anyone want to do that? Well, as Hill explained, this bizarre vessel was the actual playing field for the annual game of ballast between the Magrewskis and the Popovs.

The goal of the game was to remove ballast from the depths of the
Nyetbezkov.
Technically,
ballast
was the name for any heavy material placed in the hull of a ship in order to make it more balanced. Often ballast was just crushed gravel. But, in this case, the
Nyetbezkov's
hull was filled with hundred-pound cannon balls. On the day of Fort Krasnik's annual ballast match, the two teams of longshoremen gathered on the beach in front of the
Nyetbezkov.
Each team climbed up onto the ship via the ropes dangling from either end, crept through the utter darkness inside, located the cannon balls on the lowermost level, and then brought five of them back to the beach. The team to do this first was the winner. Each team was led by someone who was light, flexible, and comfortable navigating in complete darkness. This person was known as the mole rat. Five brawny longshoremen followed closely behind and were linked to the mole rat by rope. The game had many pitfalls. Perhaps the most serious of these was that the floors inside the ship were all rotting away and, if you took a wrong step, you could easily fall to your death.

"I thought you said this game wasn't dangerous," Alfonso said.

"It's not dangerous if you're a good mole rat," replied Hill. "And I feel certain—deep in my bones—that you're going to be the best mole rat there ever was."

Alfonso gave his uncle a very unconvinced look.

"Listen," whispered Hill urgently, "if you don't want to do this, just say the word, but I believe you can do it. Remember: you're no ordinary sleeper.
For heaven's sake, you grew a Dormian bloom!
All you have to do is trust yourself."

"But that's the problem," said Alfonso. "I can't trust myself. I might go to sleep intending to play ballast, and then end up building a sandcastle instead."

"No," said Hill sternly. "You have to focus. Before you fall asleep, you must picture yourself climbing the rope ladder onto the ship—again, and again, and again, and again—until your brain gets the idea. That's what I do whenever I need to do something in my sleep. Then, when you doze off, you'll be on your way."

"I don't know," said Alfonso. "You flew the wrong way around the world—maybe I'll get it backwards too!"

"You won't!" said Hill.

"You really think I can do this?" asked Alfonso.

Hill clapped Alfonso on the shoulders. "I've only just met you," said Hill, "but I believe in you with all my heart."

***

A few hours later, every single able-bodied person on the entire island of Fort Krasnik had gathered in front of the
Nyetbezkov
to watch the annual ballast game. Most of the spectators were longshoremen, sailors, or the kind of sketchy-looking characters who had to be thieves or outlaws of one kind or another. There were also a great many gamblers. Most of the fans
seemed to be brandishing fists full of dollars (American and Canadian) and calling out various odds on the match.

"I'll bet two hundred smackeroos on the Magrewskis if ya give me ten-to-one odds," yelled one short, pudgy sailor.

"I'll bet five hundred on the Magrewskis if ya give me fifteen-to-one odds," yelled another sailor.

"I'll take both yer bets," announced a tall longshoreman. "There's not a chance in the world that the Magrewskis will win. Yer money is as good as mine."

"I heard the Magrewskis got a new mole rat," added an old woman with a patch over her eye. "They say he's Leif's son. Still, I'm bettin' my money on the Popovs. You'd have to be nuts to bet on the Magrewskis."

As the spectators continued to bet and speculate on the outcome of the match, Judy and Pappy—laying in a movable bed—watched on nervously. Neither of them was happy about Alfonso participating in this event, but it was too late to object now.

Meanwhile, Hill and Alfonso were walking to the place where the Magrewski team had gathered. Along the way, however, they were stopped by a small, impish man with white hair, reddish eyes, and tiny hands.

"The name is Timmons, mole rat for the Popovs," said the man. "I heard yer the new mole rat."

Alfonso nodded.

"Yer a bit young, ain't ya?" asked Timmons.

"He's old enough," replied Hill.

"They say yer Leif's son," said Timmons. "I knew yer old man. They say he was the most gifted mole rat there ever was. But I say he was a cheater and a thief too—stealin' money from his own brothers!"

Alfonso blushed fiercely and his hands curled into fists.

"That's enough Timmons," warned Hill.

"Be careful," added Timmons. "The
Nyetbezkov
can be a dangerous place—I'm lucky it ain't claimed my life yet. If I was ya, boy, I'd think twice about playin' this game or ya might end up disappearin' like yer old man. I think—"

But Timmons never finished his sentence because he was interrupted by the most powerfully built man that Alfonso had ever seen. He must have weighed upwards of three hundred fifty pounds—all of which appeared to be rock-solid muscle. His arms looked stronger than the legs of an elephant. His hair was jet-black, rather oily-looking, and pulled back into a short ponytail. He wore a dirty pair of longshoreman overalls, had a bushy set of muttonchops, and sported a massive tattoo of a sea dragon on his arm.

"I think it's time ya shut yer trap," the man said to Timmons in a very deep voice. "If ya don't leave now, yer liable to end up with a few broken bones." The man smiled in an unfriendly manner.

Timmons gave a peevish look and scampered away.

The man turned to Alfonso and stuck out a beefy hand. "The name is Paks Bilblox," said the man with a kindly smile. "But everyone just calls me Bilblox. I'm your muscle."

"That means he's the guy on your team who walks directly behind you," explained Hill. "You'll rely on him the most."

"You're gonna do just fine, Alfonso," said Bilblox. "Don't pay any mind to Timmons. He's just tryin' to mess with ya. Yer old man was no thief or cheater. He was the best there ever was at this game."

Alfonso nodded in what he hoped was a confident way. Bilblox
put his massive arm around Alfonso's shoulder and led him over to where their other teammates were standing. There were four of them—all tough, muscular men with mutton-chops and hard brown eyes. Bilblox introduced Alfonso, then they all walked to the starting line directly in the middle of the clearing, alongside Timmons and his teammates. At the starting gun, the two teams would run to their respective ladders and begin climbing up onto the ship.

"Okay, everybody," Bilblox announced. "It's time to buckle in."

Everyone on the Magrewski team lined up behind Alfonso. Each person wore a body harness with straps that went around the waist and chest. One at a time, the members of the team ran a rope through their harnesses so that they were all connected. When this was done, Bilblox instructed Alfonso to announce that they were ready.

"We're all ready!" yelled Alfonso as confidently as he could.

"We're all ready too!" yelled Timmons.

Everyone waited for the referee to shoot off the starting gun, as Alfonso stared out at the crashing waves. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears. How would he ever fall asleep? The rope. He had to focus on the rope—just as Hill had told him to do. He closed his eyes and pictured himself climbing it. He pictured the scene perfectly and slowly it happened: he began to feel drowsy. Soon Alfonso was asleep. In fact, he was so deeply asleep that, when the starting gun went off, he didn't even budge. Meanwhile, Timmons and his team ran to their rope and began climbing up it with great speed.

"What's goin' on?" shouted one of the members of the Magrewski team. "We're losin' already!"

"Be quiet!" whispered Bilblox. "Give him a minute. Then he'll be racin' outta here like a missile—just like his old man."

Timmons had nearly reached the upper deck of the
Nyetbezkov
when Alfonso finally entered his sleeping trance. His body snapped to attention, his eyes opened, and he let out a loud snore. He turned to face the rusted ship. A moment later, he was running for the rope ladder. A great cheer rose from the crowd, but Alfonso didn't wake up—he didn't even hesitate—he just shimmied up the rope ladder like a monkey gone wild. His teammates followed closely behind, making as little noise as possible.

"That-a-boy," muttered Bilblox as he climbed. "That- a-boy."

When the Magrewski team arrived on the upper deck, all five longshoremen winced from the pain in their burning red hands and aching shoulders. Alfonso, however, just stood there, as if waiting for a bus. Seconds later, he started again. The entire team crab-walked up the steeply slanting deck to a darkened doorway. The doorway opened into a narrow stairway filled with trash, dead seagulls, and thick strips of rusted-off paint.

"No one goes down this way," gasped one of the Magrewski longshoremen. "This stairway is too dangerous. We'll fall to our deaths!"

"Zip it!" hissed Bilblox. "The kid knows what he's doin'."

Alfonso avoided stepping on the actual stairs and instead pressed his legs against the narrow walls of the stairwell and slowly moved down. His teammates followed. Soon they were in absolute darkness. According to the rules of the game, the mole rat carried a flashlight that contained a half-hour's worth
of battery life. Alfonso switched his flashlight on and continued on.

Suddenly everyone heard a crunch, as if rusting metal had just given way. Alfonso's light disappeared and Bilblox felt a jerk on his rope. "Steady, boys!" yelled Bilblox. All five longshoremen slid forward and braced themselves in time. Bilblox peered at Alfonso, who was dangling through a portion of the floor that had just collapsed. Alfonso looked up blankly. They could hear him snoring. In one swift movement, Bilblox grabbed the rope and hoisted Alfonso up.