Mr. Willimaker turned back to Elliot. “We were sent here on behalf of all Brownies. We’re friends to you. Do you believe in Brownies?”
“I do now.” Earlier that night Elliot would’ve given a different answer, but it’s hard to deny the existence of something that’s staring you in the face.
“My name is Mr. Willimaker.”
“Oh, well, it’s nice to meet you,” said Elliot.
Mr. Willimaker pointed to the girl beside him. “This is my daughter, Patches.”
Elliot squinted as he looked at her. “I remember you. Halloween three years ago, right?”
“Yes!” Patches seemed pleased to be remembered. At least her ears perked up slightly.
“We live in the Underworld, miles and miles below where we now stand. Not just Brownies there, of course, but also Dwarves and Elves and Pixies—many different creatures. Mostly we keep to ourselves, but I can introduce you around if you’d like.”
“Oh, uh, thanks.” Elliot waited for the Brownies to say something else, but they didn’t. So finally he said, “Is there something I can do to help you?”
The Brownies laughed at that. Elliot pinched his lips together, wondering what the joke was. Then he said, “I don’t think that was funny. You came to my room in the middle of the night. I think it’s fair for me to ask why.”
“Oh, yes,” Mr. Willimaker said. “You can ask why, and I’m glad you did. We’ve come to tell you the good news.”
Elliot was suspicious. He didn’t know much about Brownies. Maybe their idea of good news
was, “Congratulations, your life is about to get a whole lot worse!”
That wasn’t exactly it. Mr. Willimaker bowed low. “Congratulations, you are the new king of the Brownies.”
It was Elliot’s turn to laugh. “Me? That’s crazy!”
Mr. Willimaker pressed his thick eyebrows together. “Why? Are you already a king for another Underworld race? The Leprechauns maybe? If it’s gold you want—”
“I’m not anyone’s king! I’m just a kid. I didn’t even know there were Underworld races. Why me?”
Patches stepped forward. “All we know is that right before she died, Queen Bipsy gave my father your name.”
“Bipsy? Silly name for a queen.”
“You can’t pronounce her full name without a lot of spitting and a hard slap to your face,” Patches said. “Would you like me to show you?”
“Bipsy’s fine,” Elliot said quickly and then added, “But I don’t want to be king. I’ve got school tomorrow.”
“Just consider being king a sort of homework assignment,” Mr. Willimaker said. “There’s math homework and English homework. Being our king is like Underworld mythical creature homework.”
Elliot folded his arms. “What would I have to do?”
“It’s simple. You’ll solve whatever little problems come up, such as who gets the potato if it grows across two garden patches.”
“You’ll sentence prisoners to hard time,” Patches said.
“And drink all the turnip juice you want,” Mr. Willimaker said.
“And end the war with the—” Patches began before her father clamped a hand over her mouth.
Elliot tilted his head. “What’s that last one?”
Mr. Willimaker looked at his feet and mumbled, “Oh, nothing, there’s just this little…”
“I can’t hear you,” Elliot said. “Could you speak louder?”