Theodore looked up from kneeling in a bed of kelp, his fists filled with seashells.
Hank nodded down the beach. “I’m going to walk down that way and search that section of beach. You stay here and go through the seaweed. Make a pile of anything you find.”
“Okay!”
“And don’t wander off. Keep me in sight. You understand?”
Theodore nodded seriously.
And Hank moved on.
* * *
Muddy lay inside his bottle,three plush tasseled pillows behind his head, the sound of waves crashing in the distance. No bouncing around. No flying through the air. Just peace and quiet. Everything was in its place. And he was reading a dime novel.
Terrible Tom Torture was about to abscond with brave lawman Bowie Bradshaw’s horseandhis woman, Clementine Purdy, inThe Adventures of Bushwhacking Bowie Bradshaw.It was one of the small books he had slipped inside his bottle before he had granted his former master his last wish.
He was just reading the part where Tom had raised his Colt to shoot Bowie in the back when Muddy heard something and looked up, listening.
Thud... thud... thud!
He dropped his book and stared up at the stopper way up in the top of his bottle. Had he heard footsteps?
Thud... thud... thud...
There they were again. They were clearly footsteps. He shot off his bed and leaped up and down. His purple turban slipped over one eye, and he shoved it back on his head. The bells on the curly toes of his shoes tinkled, and he waved his hands frantically.
Here I am! Here I am! Find me!
He stopped and held his breath, listening, waiting, hoping.
There was no sound but the surge of the sea.
A moment later, the footsteps just walked past.
Muddy stood staring at his stopper, then he looked at his rug for a moment, sighed, and sagged back against the cushions. The same thing had happened so many times over the years that disappointment was becoming a natural emotion.
He glanced back at the novel, but he’d lost interest in Bowie Bradshaw’s troubles. He rested his chin on his hand and wished for a little luck and excitement in his boring and lonely existence.
A second later the bottle tilted suddenly, then shook up and down. Muddy flew back and forth, tumbling upside down and sideways. He bounced on the cushions and pillows and ducked when the cursed baseball bat flew past his head.
Then it happened.
The stopper popped open.
A shaft of bright golden sunlight pierced the bottle’s interior.
In a cloud of purple smoke, Muddy blasted upward. Like the suction in a waterspout, air pulled at his silk turban and sucked on his golden earrings. A cloud of magical purple smoke swirled around him, and he passed through the mouth of the bottle into the thick, sweet-smelling air of the tropics.
He curled in a smoky circle and spiraled to the ground. His feet hit the sand. He put his right hand to his forehead and bent low in a salaam while the cloud dissipated.
The ancient lines of the genii ran through his head by rote. He had said the wordsGreetings, oh masterenough throughout the centuries. But in a moment of whimsy, his mind flashed with the image of hero Bowie Bradshaw.
Muddy dropped the salaam and raised his head. He tugged on the waist of his billowing pants. “Whoa... Howdy there, pardner! This here’s yor lucky day!”
He heard a loud gasp. It was always the same. Disbelief. Skepticism. Cynicism. He waved the smoke aside and blinked a couple of times.
The bright sunshine turned his vision into a blur for a second. He shook his head slightly and rubbed a hand over his eyes, then stared at the face of his newest master—a little red-haired boy.
