We Sled With Dragons Read online

  We totally saw this coming. . . .

  “Bad news, guys!” Their father walked down the aisle toward them. “We can’t land in Svalbard because there’s too much ice on the runway . . . so we’re going to have to jump out of the plane!”

  Celia turned to her brother. “You totally jinxed us,” she said.

  “What? How did I do that?” Oliver replied.

  “You brought up jumping out of a plane!” said Celia. “On TV, you can’t talk about jumping out of a plane while you’re on a plane. Because then you’ll have to jump out of it!”

  “No,” said Oliver. “You can’t talk about not wanting to jump out of a plane. That’s the rule! And you said, ‘I don’t want Oliver jumping out of the plane. I don’t want anyone jumping out of the plane.’ So this is your fault.”

  “That’s not the rule,” said Celia.

  “Yes it is,” said Oliver. “I know the rules.”

  “But this isn’t TV,” said his father.

  “The rules are the same,” he said.

  “If you say so,” Dr. Navel said. “When I was your age, we had these crazy things called books.”

  “When you were our age, did your parents make you jump out of an airplane?” Oliver asked.

  “Well no,” said Dr. Navel. “I guess times change.”

  “I guess so.” Celia scowled.

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  We Are Not Eaten by Yaks:

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  PUFFIN BOOKS

  An imprint of Penguin Young Readers Group

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  USA / Canada / UK / Ireland / Australia / New Zealand / India / South Africa / China

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  For more information about the Penguin Group visit www.penguin.com

  Published by Puffin Books, an imprint of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2013

  Copyright © C. Alexander London, 2013

  Illustrations copyright © Jonny Duddle, 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA IS AVAILABLE UPON REQUEST

  ISBN 978-0-698-14567-2

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  For my own Indiana Jones

  and our adventures yet to come

  Contents

  1. WE PLAN THE PLAN

  2. WE’RE JINXED IN DJIBOUTI

  3. WE RERUN

  4. WE CHECK IN

  5. WE MAKE A LONG STORY SHORT

  6. WE HEAR HERDERS

  7. WE’RE PRIVY TO THE PROPHECY

  8. WE CATCH A FILM

  9. WE’RE NOT PROJECTING

  10. WE GO AHEAD

  11. WE ARE AND ARE NOT

  12. WE TURN THE PAGE

  13. WE HAVE A CATCH PHRASE

  14. WE FEEL LIKE FALCONS

  15. WE SEE A DRAGON

  16. WE DON’T MIND OUR MANNERS

  17. WE GET SOME TV TIME

  18. WE WATCH ICE MELT

  19. WE CAN’T GO ON, WE’LL GO ON

  20. WE MUSH-MUSH

  21. WE ABSQUATULATE

  22. WE CLIMB THE OCEAN

  23. WE ARE NOT BRUNCH

  24. WE SLEEP WITH WALRUSES

  25. WE’RE DRIFTERS

  26. WE FIGHT FOR OUR LIVES

  27. WE BEAR THE UNBEARABLE

  28. WE MEET THE ODD

  29. WE DETEST DESTINY

  30. WE SLEIGH A DRAGON

  31. WE’RE OVER THE RAINBOW

  32. WE’RE IN RUINS

  33. WE’RE SQUIRRELED AWAY

  34. WE THINK DRAGONS ARE A DRAG

  35. WE CHECK OUT A BOOK

  36. WE’RE GOOD AS GOLD

  37. WE TIE THE KNOT

  38. WE’RE NOW HERE

  39. WE DON’T RUN AWAY

  40. WE DON’T MISS A THING

  A FINAL NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  SPECIAL SAMPLE

  1

  WE PLAN THE PLAN

  “WHOSE BOOTY?” OLIVER Navel asked for the third time, as their small boat bobbed gently on the waves and lights twinkled on the shore.

  “It’s no one’s booty!” His twin sister, Celia, groaned at him. “It’s Djibouti! It’s the name of the city. Jib-boot-tee! Djibouti.”

  “Huh?” Oliver grunted.

  “Djibouti!” His sister jumped to her feet, waving her arms like a lunatic and rocking the boat back and forth. “Djibouti! Djibouti! Djibouti!”

  Their parents, Dr. Claire Navel and Dr. Ogden Navel, ducked out of the way of Celia’s flailing arms and steadied themselves on the sides of the boat. They were world-famous adventurers and the Explorers-in-Residence at the Explorers Club in New York City, and they had learned a few things in their travels, such as how to dodge a wild boar attack and how to escape a hive of enraged killer bees. They found the same tactic came in handy when dealing with their eleven-and-a-half-year-old twins: get out of the way as quickly as possible.

  Oliver fell off his narrow bench, laughing at his sister. He splashed into a puddle in the shallow hull of the boat, but he was laughing too hard to care.

  He knew, of course, that Djibouti was the city whose lights were twinkling on the shore a short distance away on the coast of North Africa. He’d seen at least five episodes of his favorite spy TV show, Agent Zero, that were set in Djibouti.

  He probably knew more about Djibouti than Celia did. He just liked hearing his sister yell it over and over again.

  “What is so funny about Djibouti?” Celia demanded. Oliver snickered and pulled himself back up onto his bench.

  Brothers can be so immature, she thought. She was three minutes and forty-two seconds older than Oliver, but sometimes it seemed like she was three years older. Oliver was giggling
like an idiot just because Djibouti sounded like “booty.” She noticed her father was smirking too.

  Celia looked at her mother and rolled her eyes. Boys never grew up.

  “It’s just the city’s name.” She blew a strand of hair out of her face. ”Djibouti.”

  “Bwaaah!” Oliver exploded in laughter again. He leaned over the side of the boat, turning bright red and shaking. He held his hand up in the air. “Enough,” he gasped. “No more . . . I can’t . . . don’t say it again . . .”

  “Djibouti,” said Celia.

  “Bwaaah!” Oliver cried, convulsing with violent laughter.

  “Djibouti,” she said again.

  Oliver was turning purple, doubled over, long past the point when laughing was fun but unable to stop. We all certainly know the feeling, which usually occurs at the least opportune moment, such as during study hall or when a famed astronomer is giving a lecture on the ice mountains of Uranus.

  “Oliver, calm down,” Dr. Claire Navel, Oliver and Celia’s mother, said. She grabbed Oliver by the back of his T-shirt to keep him from laughing himself over the edge of the boat. “And Celia, stop harassing your brother.”

  “He asked for it,” said Celia.

  “Be that as it may”—their mother looked from Celia to Oliver and back again—“there is nothing funny about Djibouti.”

  Their father snickered, but his wife shot him a glance that could have melted the ice mountains on Uranus. He fixed his face into a serious expression and stayed silent.

  “The city is a den of pirates, thieves, and tourists,” their mother continued. “Who knows what they’re doing to poor Corey Brandt in there?”

  “Don’t forget Dennis,” said Oliver.

  Dennis was a chicken. Technically, being a male chicken, he was a rooster, but we don’t really need to be so persnickety, do we?

  The important thing to know about Dennis is that he was a chicken who had proven himself intelligent and heroic, in spite of having once served as bird-in-residence aboard a pirate ship. He had belonged to the captain, a ferocious rogue named Big Bart, but Bonnie, another pirate on Big Bart’s crew, took Dennis the chicken prisoner at the same time that she kidnapped Corey Brandt.

  Corey Brandt, we should note, was not a chicken. He was an actor. He had, however, once dressed as a chicken for a discount mattress commercial. That was a long time ago, and he doesn’t like to talk about it.

  Currently, Corey Brandt was the most famous teenager in the world, star of hit television shows like Agent Zero, The Celebrity Adventurist, and the groundbreaking teen vampire drama Sunset High. He wasn’t yet eighteen years old, but he earned more money in a day sitting in his trailer wearing vampire fangs than the entire population of Djibouti earned in a year.

  It was no wonder pirates were holding him for ransom.

  Corey was also Oliver and Celia’s best friend in the world, like a cool older brother, and he had been kidnapped while trying to reunite the twins with their parents and find a map to the lost city of Atlantis. The Navels were happy to be reunited. It had been years since they had all been together, but they hadn’t been able to keep the map to Atlantis from falling into the hands of an evil explorer or keep Corey from falling into the hands of a vicious pirate.

  It had taken weeks to track the pirates from the Pacific Ocean, through the Strait of Malacca, across the Bay of Bengal, along the Kerala coast of India, and now across the Arabian Sea to Djibouti, and the twins were not only missing most of sixth grade, which they didn’t mind one bit, they were also missing the season finales of all their favorite TV shows, which they minded quite a lot.

  “Are you sure this plan will work?” Celia asked her mother. “Because I’m missing the last episode of Celebrity Fashion Crimes.”

  “And the new season of World’s Best Rodeo Clown,” said Oliver.

  “And Love at 30,000 Feet,” said Celia.

  “And Soup Wars,” said Oliver.

  “And Bizarro Bandits,” the twins said together.

  They were missing a lot of television.

  “We’ll get you home soon,” their mother told them with a sigh. She couldn’t understand why they’d rather watch TV than plan a raid on a pirate stronghold in Djibouti. “The Prague Proposition is foolproof.”

  “But this isn’t Prague,” said Celia. “It’s Djibouti.”

  “Bwah—” Oliver started to laugh, but Celia scowled at him. He clamped his hands over his mouth. Dr. Ogden Navel let out one high-pitched giggle.

  “I’ve adapted the plan for this city,” their mother said.

  “So why not call it something else?” Oliver suggested. “Like the Djibouti Jinx?”

  “Oh, that’s good, Ollie! You’re thinking like a real explorer now!” His mother licked her thumb and tried to press Oliver’s stray hair flat against his head. He flinched and ducked away but couldn’t help smirking just a little. He’d never admit it, but he liked that he’d impressed his mother.

  “What’ll happen to Corey if the Djbou—” Celia glanced at Oliver. “If the plan doesn’t work?”

  “You worry too much,” she said. “The Prague—I mean, the Djibouti Jinx will work.”

  “It better.” Celia glanced across the water at the city, which stuck out into the Gulf of Aden like a stray hair on Africa’s head. “Or else we’ll have missed all our shows for nothing.”

  “Trust me,” their mother said, smiling at her family. She grabbed her husband’s hand and squeezed it. “We’re all together again. Nothing can possibly go wrong.”

  2

  WE’RE JINXED IN DJIBOUTI

  EVERYTHING WAS GOING wrong.

  The stuffy storeroom behind the Saba Importing Company was too hot, and the sweat was soaking through his heavy makeup. The large gentleman could feel his face beginning to run, like a sad clown stuck out in the rain. If his disguise failed, it meant doom not just for himself, but for the Navel family, for Corey Brandt, and for one unfortunate chicken named Dennis.

  “Bwak,” said the chicken, who was in a cage sitting on top of a stack of imported carpets. A dim lightbulb hung from the ceiling in the center of the room, swinging slowly clockwise, casting ever-shifting shadows.

  “Mrmml hurml mrrmm,” said the teenager with the perfect hair, teardrop freckle under his eye, and greasy cloth in his mouth. He was tied to a metal folding chair across a wooden table from the big sweating man. Even bigger men with tattoos and knives stood guard by the door.

  Next to the teenager sat the pirate captain Bonnie, a great-great-great-great-granddaughter of one of the most notorious pirates ever to sail the seas. Bonnie had taken over her ship when the previous captain was . . . how to put this politely? Forced into early retirement, perhaps?

  To put it impolitely, he was murdered by Bonnie and his own crew tossed him overboard into the churning sea, where sharks made a meal of his remains.

  Pirates are not known for their manners.

  “You look ill.” Bonnie sneered at the sweating gentleman. “Are you going to pass out? That would cause a problem for our deal.”

  “It’s just very hot in here, that’s all,” the gentleman told her, forgetting himself and mopping his dripping brow with his tie.

  “You’ve ruined your cravat,” said Bonnie.

  “Huh?”

  Bonnie pointed at the gentleman’s necktie. A blob of heavy makeup had smeared off his forehead and covered one of the cheerful ducks embroidered into the silk.

  “What did you say your name was?” Bonnie frowned at him. Two of her big associates inched closer to him, gripping their knives.

  “My name . . . is . . . um, Mr. Chaterjee,” the gentleman said. He wished he could stop sweating. Why had they arranged to meet in this sweltering room? He could barely breathe. He had warned Claire Navel that this plan was a bad idea. He was no good at disguises. He’d jinx the whole operation
. “Aloysius B. Chaterjee, just like I told you on the telephone.” He tried to sound confident.

  “I think not.” Bonnie squinted at him. “I’ve heard of another man who wears ties with ducks on them. Professor Rasmali-Greenberg, the president of the Explorers Club. He is famous for his duck ties. I do hope, for your sake, that you are not this professor in disguise.”

  “Is this a duck?” Professor Rasmali-Greenberg—for that’s who he really was—pretended to study his tie.

  “It is a duck,” said Bonnie coldly.

  “I thought it was a pigeon,” the professor lied.

  “It’s a duck,” said Bonnie.

  “Or a moose? Maybe a lemur.” He rubbed it with his thumb. “I am certain that it’s a lemur.”

  “It is a duck,” Bonnie repeated.

  “Regardless, your accusation is absurd,” said the professor. “I am Aloysius B. Chaterjee, a movie producer from Bombay, and I am here to buy this teenager to put him in my movies back in India.”

  “Mumbai,” said Bonnie.

  “Huh?” said the professor in disguise.

  “The city is called Mumbai now, not Bombay. They changed it years ago.”

  “Of course.” He smiled. “I am just old fashioned.”

  “Uh-huh.” Bonnie studied him. “So, why do you want the chicken?”

  “I thought you said it was a duck?”

  “Not on the tie,” said Bonnie. “The chicken in the cage.”

  Dennis clucked.

  “Also for my movies,” said the professor. “I am thinking of making a musical about a teenager who falls in love with a bird, who is really a princess living under a curse that transformed her into a chicken.”

  “This chicken is a rooster,” said Bonnie. “A boy chicken.”

  “Well, I can put a dress on it and add eyelashes,” said the professor.

  “You’re lying,” said Bonnie.

  “How do you know? Have you ever tried to attach eyelashes to a chicken?”