Pico and the Nine Runaway Keys

PICO AND THE NINE RUNAWAY KEYS Pico was the smallest helper at the Keyhouse. He dusted the low hooks. He sorted the tiny tags. He carried exactly one key at a time. "Small jobs," Pico sighed. His sigh was not small. It shook three labels off the wall.

Orla, the old Keykeeper, could hear a loose lock from across the Cat Sea. She rehung the labels. "A large job does not make a helper large," she said. "I know," said Pico, who did not know yet. Then nine new doors arrived on Lantern Row. Each needed its moon-key before sunset.

Orla placed nine keys on a blue ring. Cinnamon warmed the first. Rain cooled the second. Wool clung to the third. Mint sharpened the fourth. Salt crusted the fifth. Warm stone slept on the sixth. Apples brightened the seventh. Soap tickled the eighth. The smallest key smelled like nothing at all. "Walk," said Orla. "Listen. Match." Pico stood very tall for someone so short.

Pico walked past the first lantern. The keys chimed behind him. He walked past the second lantern. The keys chimed faster. At the third lantern, three ferry pups called, "Is that the big Keyhouse job?" Pico puffed his chest. "Watch how a real Keykeeper travels." He slipped the blue ring over his tail.

Pico spun once. The keys made a silver circle. He spun twice. The circle became a wheel. He spun a third time and sneezed. The blue ring sailed away. Nine keys woke in the air. Nine locks answered. Every key chose the wrong door.

The cinnamon key opened the rain closet. The rain key opened the bakery. The wool key opened a room full of minnows. The salt key opened a cupboard of stars. Lantern Row filled with wet bread, floating socks, surprised fish, and one extremely clean thundercloud. "Interesting weather," said the baker.

Pico chased the mint key under a cart. He chased the apple key over a roof. He chased the soap key around the same fountain four times. The faster he ran, the more the doors traded places. At last Pico found the empty blue ring. He tucked it beneath his chest. Perhaps, he thought, the street would untangle itself. The street did not share this idea.

Orla arrived without hurrying. "Where are the keys?" she asked. Pico looked into a puddle. His reflected eye held one little lantern. "Everywhere," he whispered. Then he set the empty ring between them. "I wanted the job to look big while I was doing it." Orla sat beside him. The puddle became only a puddle again.

"Keys remember their doors," Orla said. "Then why did they choose wrong?" "Because you made more noise than their remembering." Pico listened. Beneath the rain and socks and fish, nine doors hummed nine low notes. Pico's ears turned. His nose twitched. "Cinnamon is humming beside the bakery," he said. "Good," said Orla. "Walk. Listen. Match."

Pico walked. He matched cinnamon to the baker's red door. Rain to the blue door with wet hinges. Wool to the round door with the warm mat. Mint to the green door beneath the vines. Salt. Stone. Apples. Soap. Eight keys rested in eight right locks. But the smallest key was missing. It still smelled like nothing at all.

Pico closed his eyes. Not cinnamon. Not rain. Not wool or mint or salt. Under the fountain, behind the loud water, something made no smell and almost no sound. Pico slipped one small paw through the drain grate. The ninth key clicked against his claw. The smallest helper reached the smallest place.

At sunset, all nine doors stood where they belonged. The baker wrung out the bread. The minnows swam home in a soup pot. The clean thundercloud politely returned the soap. Pico carried the blue ring back to the Keyhouse. He carried it in his mouth. He walked. The next morning, Orla bolted a new hook beneath her own. The high hook held the great harbor keys. The low hook held a blue ring and nine moon-keys. Pico was still the smallest helper at the Keyhouse. Now the smallest job was listening for what everyone else missed. His tail did not spin once. It wagged.