We Are Not Eaten by Yaks (8 page)

EXITING AN AIRPLANE IN MIDAIR
is not an easy thing to do, even if you wanted to do it. And the Navel family certainly did not want to do it.

In fact, Celia tried to bite the air marshal's finger when he came to grab her, but the shiny-suited man in the seat next to her grabbed her and held her still while the air marshal tied her hands in front of her. Celia noticed that each man wore a gold ring with a tiny key inscribed on it and the key had tiny shining stones embedded in it.

“If you can't behave, I'll have to leave you restrained,” the air marshal said cruelly. “I don't want to do that.”

Two of the stewardesses tied Oliver's hands in front of him and moved him to the back of the plane. One of them looked at him and mouthed the words “I'm sorry,” but it did little to comfort him. He didn't like heights. He could already taste the dry chicken and soggy strawberry shortcake he'd eaten an hour earlier. It was far less pleasant-tasting going in reverse. He wanted to look brave for his father, so he took deep breaths and kept himself from throwing up. His father, meanwhile, had already been handcuffed to the duty-free shopping cart. He looked pale and his eyes darted frantically, trying to think of a way to save his family from a thirty-eight-thousand-foot fall. His glasses slid down on his nose and he could not get them up again.

This was not the first disaster Oliver and Celia had faced with their father, but it was perhaps the worst. River rapids could be navigated. Wild horses could be calmed. Angry cannibals could be persuaded to go vegetarian for health reasons. There was no arguing with a thirty-eight-thousand-foot fall.

“You're really going to kill us for causing a disturbance?” Dr. Navel asked the air marshal. Some of the other passengers on the plane looked concerned, but no one seemed to want to interfere. Many people didn't seem concerned at all. They kept staring at their glossy magazines, paperback novels or miniature television screens. Oh, how the twins longed to be back in front of the television at home!

“I'm not going to kill you,” the air marshal said. “I am just going to remove you from the plane. What happens after that is up to you . . . and gravity.”

ʺThis is crazy,ʺ Dr. Navel said to the stewardess.

“You should
not
have poked me,” she replied coldly, and dragged the duty-free shopping cart—and Dr. Navel with it—through the door to the tail of the plane. The air marshal shoved the twins after them.

“You can't do this!” Dr. Navel shouted.

“Oh, yes, I can,” said the air marshal, and he knocked Dr. Navel on the head. Dr. Navel crumpled to the floor, unconscious. The marshal took off Dr. Navel's handcuffs, untied the children's hands, and, without a word, he and the stewardess left, locking the door that led back to the airplane cabin.

“What happens now?” Celia asked.

“They are going to open the tail and the pressure will suck us out and we'll fall,” Oliver said. “I saw this in a movie.”

Suddenly, the door opened again, and the stewardess was back.

“Excuse me,” she said, smiling like she was interrupting their nap. “Don't forget your carry-on bag.” She set Celia and Oliver's small backpack on the floor and left the tail again, locking the door behind her. Celia and Oliver just stared at the door. Oliver ran over and pounded on it a few times, but nothing happened.

“We're in trouble.” He leaned against the door and sighed.

“We need parachutes,” Celia said, tugging her brother out of his slouch. “Fast.”

They scurried around the back of the plane and found a big square of yellow plastic with a string on it.

“What's this?” Oliver pulled at the string. Suddenly, there was a whoosh of sound, and the square unfolded and started to fill with air. It knocked Oliver over as it took its shape: a life raft.

“That's great,” Celia said. “If only we were on a boat.”

Oliver ran over to the duty-free cart that the stewardess had left behind and pulled out a heavy canvas poncho with the airline's logo on it.

“They're selling these for twenty-three ninety-five,” he said. “That's a good deal.”

“What are you doing? This isn't the Home Shopping Channel, Oliver! We're about to die!”

“I have an idea,” Oliver told his sister excitedly. He pulled out three more of the canvas ponchos and started tying them together by their hoods. Celia saw what he was up to and started to help him. When they ran out of ponchos, they started tying plastic garbage bags to the ponchos. Within a minute, they had a giant canvas and plastic quilt that sort of looked like a parachute.

“I know the movie this idea is from,” Celia said anxiously. “Things don't go well, remember?”

“The heroes survive the fall, don't they?”

“Yeah, but they end up eating bugs. I hate eating bugs.”

“Don't think about that now. We just need to tie this to the raft somehow,” he said. “And get in it quickly.”

They found bungee cords and started attaching the patchwork parachute to the raft as fast as they could. Their parents had made them take a survival class every Saturday during kindergarten and they still knew their knots pretty well. Dr. Rasmali-Greenberg had been their teacher. For every knot they learned, he let them watch a half hour of cartoons. Much to his surprise, they learned over a hundred knots and reclaimed their Saturday mornings for
Ducks Incorporated
and
Flappy the Parrot Prince
. They were excellent students when they had the right motivation.

As they tied, they heard a loud clank and the floor started to shift.

“Uh-oh,” Oliver said.

“They're opening the hatch,” Celia shouted. Daylight began to slice into the dim space and their ears popped. The air roared around them.

“Ouch!” they both shouted. Oliver grabbed his father's feet and Celia grabbed his arms and they tossed him into the raft. He hit his head on the floor when they did it.

“Sorry, Dad,” Oliver said, but his father didn't react at all. Celia put on their backpack and then they jumped into the raft themselves and kept working at the knots on their parachute.

“I hope this holds together,” Celia said. The raft started to slide toward the opening at the back of the plane. They saw the clouds far below them.

“Hang on to Dad!” Celia yelled. Oliver grabbed his father by the foot with one hand and held on to the handles of the raft with the other. He sat down on the parachute they'd made so that it wouldn't open up right away. At the speed they were going, the wind would tear it to shreds. He would let it out once they'd fallen a bit. He knew that much from action movies. If he'd had the Discovery Channel, he probably could have made something better, he thought, but it was too late to worry about that now. If they survived, they'd get cable.

Well, if they survived and avoided the Poison Witches and found the Lost Tablets of Alexandria in the land of Shangri-La and won the bet with Sir Edmund. Put like that, it seemed impossible.

Oliver closed his eyes to quiet his thoughts, and felt a rush as the raft with three-fourths of the Navel family slid through the opening and fell out of the airplane.

He heard his sister's high-pitched scream, which was strange, because he opened his eyes and saw that her mouth wasn't open. Then he realized it was his scream and they were falling through the sky.

ON AN ICY PEAK
high in the mountains of Tibet, a group of men sat in a circle of thrones beneath a giant statue of a ferocious creature with a dozen arms and a dozen snarling heads. Some of the men wore the yellow and maroon robes of Buddhist monks, others were in the black robes of priests and some wore business suits. There was even a man in blue jeans and a T-shirt, with a baseball cap pulled low over his face. Candles flickered in front of the giant statue, casting strange shadows on the walls.

The men watched the floor in the center of their circle, where a man stood in a trance. He wore the sparkling robes and giant banners of the protector-spirit, the warrior-god, Dorjee Drakden. When the spirit entered the man's body, he rose taller in his shoes, his chest puffed and his voice grew loud and deep.

“Who calls me?” he bellowed. Bells at the top of his helmet jingled. He held a shining sword, and his eyes, wide and full of fury, darted around the circle of men. He saw the powerful monks of the Yellow Hat sect sitting on the floor behind him, each frozen in meditation, yet alert to his every move. He saw the priests and the men in suits and the shadows dancing on the walls. The spirit searched for the only being to whom he would bow, the highest lama in Tibetan religion, His Holiness the Dalai Lama.

Dorjee Drakden swung his arms and swept around the circle. He did not see the Dalai Lama; he did not see anyone he considered worthy of his friendship. He arrived at the center of the circle, face to face with a little man on the largest throne, a little man whose feet did not even touch the floor.

“Greetings,” Sir Edmund said as the god hissed and snarled in his face. Dorjee Drakden's helmet rose several feet above Sir Edmund and his sword could have easily sliced the little man in two, but Sir Edmund was not alarmed. He snapped his fingers, and immediately, two young monks appeared at his side and gave him a long white scarf, which he presented to the spirit. “I bring the respect of the Council, and gratitude for your service to us.”

“I serve the ancient ways, beyond time and form, beyond good and evil.” As the warrior-god spoke, a secretary scribbled every word he said onto a scroll. “I obey no master, but see and hear the crumbling of the universe. I protect the dharma and guide those who stray beyond the hope of kindness. I am fire, light and air. I bow to none but the—”

“Yes, thank you,” Sir Edmund interrupted. “That's lovely and we are very glad for you. We've called you here to tell us what we need to know.”

“Insolent little man! You dare to speak to me in this way! I spin the Wheel of Protection and bring demons to despair!”

Sir Edmund stood on his throne so that his face was a little above the protector-spirit's.

“In the name of the Council, I demand you answer me, Drakden. You may be immortal, but that little monk who you're living in isn't. He's our prisoner. So tell me: Where is the Navel family? Where have they gone? They were supposed to land in Beijing. Why aren't they on the plane anymore?”

Dorjee Drakden drew back from Sir Edmund and swayed and swooped around the room, hissing and growling, nearly falling under the weight of armor and robes, before stopping in the middle of the circle of men.

“They are out of your control. They fall toward the gorge and the Hidden Falls. Great power is with them, though they know it not. Great evil too!”

“They should have landed in Beijing,” Sir Edmund muttered to himself. “This was not the plan. How will our agents intercept them?”

“If someone else finds them,” said the man in the baseball cap, while texting on a tiny cell phone, “then your whole plot is in danger of falling apart, Ed.”

“My plot is perfect!” Sir Edmund objected. “This is just a wrinkle. My people will come through.”

“But if the Navels should find—”

“Relax,” said Sir Edmund. “I always have a backup plan. They are headed into the realm of the Poison Witches.”

“Heresy! Damnation!”
shouted Dorjee Drakden as he rushed at Sir Edmund, waving his sword and shouting. “These witches do not respect my authority. They are unholy creatures, whose souls are black and screeching owls. Murderers! They will not bow to me!”

“Oh, hush,” Sir Edmund snapped. “Get over yourself. Do you want Shangri-La to be found? Turned into a tourist attraction? An amusement park?”