James Dashner - The Journal of Curious Letters

Norbert Johnson had never met such strange people in all of his life, much less two on the same day-within the same hour even. Odd. Very odd indeed.

Norbert, with his scraggly gray hair and his rumpled gray pants and his wrinkly gray shirt, had worked at the post office in Macadamia, Alaska, for twenty-three years, seven months, twelve days, and-he looked at his watch-just a hair short of four hours. In those long, cold, lonesome years hed met just about every type of human being you could imagine. Nice people and mean people. Ugly people and pretty people. Lawyers, doctors, accountants, cops. Crazies and convicts. Old hags and young whippersnappers. Oh, and lots of celebrities, too.

Why, if you believed his highfalutin stories (which most people quit doing about twenty-three years, seven months, twelve days, and three hours ago), youd think hed met every movie and music star in America. Though exactly why these famous folks were up in Alaska dropping off mail was anybodys guess, so it may have been a slight exaggeration of the truth.

But todays visitors were different, and Norbert knew hed have to convince the town that this time he was telling the truth and nothing but the truth. Something scary was afoot in Macadamia.

The first stranger, a man, entered the small, cramped post office at precisely 11:15 a.m., quickly shutting the door against the blustery wind and swirling snowflakes. In doing so, he almost dropped a cardboard box full of letters clutched in his white-knuckled hands.

He was a short, anxious-looking person, shuffling his feet and twitching his nose, with a balding red scalp and round spectacles perched on his ruddy, puffy face. He wore a regal black suit: all pinstripes and silk and gold cuff links.

When the man plopped the box of letters onto the post office counter with a loud flump, a cloud of dust billowed out; Norbert coughed for several seconds. Then, to top everything off, the stranger spoke with a heavy English accent like hed just walked out of a Bill Shakespeare play.

Good day, sir, he said, the faintest attempt at a smile creasing his face into something that looked like pain. I do hope you would be so kind as to offer me some assistance in an important matter. He pulled a lace-edged handkerchief from within the dark recesses of his fancy suit and wiped his brow, beads of sweat having formed there despite the arctic temperatures outside. It was, after all, the middle of November.

Yessir, Norbert answered, ready to fulfill his duty as Postal Worker Number Three. Mighty glad to help.

The man pointed outside. Simply dreadful, isnt it?

Norbert looked through the frosted glass of the front door, but saw only the snow-swept streets and a few pedestrians bundled up and hurrying to get out of the cold. Whats dreadful, sir?

The man huffed. By the Wand, man, this place, this place! He put away his hanky and folded his arms, exaggerating a shiver up and down his body. How can you chaps stand it-the bitter cold, the short daylight, the biting wind?

Norbert laughed. I take it youre just a-visiting?

Visiting? The sharply dressed man barked something between a laugh and a snort. Therell be no visiting from me, my good man. The instant these letters are off, Ill be heading back to the ocean. The very instant, I assure you.

The ocean? Norbert eyed the man, a little offended by the strangers dislike of the only town where Norbert had ever set foot. Well, sir, how long you been here?

How long? The man looked at his golden pocket watch. How long? Approximately seven minutes, Id say, and thats far too long already. Im, er, eager to be on my way, if you dont mind. He scratched his flaky red scalp. Which reminds me-is there a cemetery closer than the one down by the frozen riverside?

A cemetery?

Yes, yes, a cemetery. You know, where they bury poor chaps with unbeating hearts? When Norbert only stared, the man sighed. Oh, never mind.

Norbert remembered hearing the word befuddled once on television. He had never been quite sure what it meant, but something told him it explained exactly how he felt at that moment. He scratched his chin, squinting at the odd little man. Sir, may I ask your name?

No, you may not, Mister Postman. But if you must call me something, you may call me Master George.

Alrighty then, Norbert said, his tone wary. Uh, Master George, youre a-telling me you just arrived here in Macadamia seven minutes ago?

Thats right. Please-

Norbert ignored him. And youre a-telling me you come all this way just to mail these here letters, and then youre a-going to up and leave again?

Egads, yes! Master George squeezed his hands together and rocked back and forth on his heels. That is, if youd be so kind as to

He motioned to the box of letters, raising his thin eyebrows.

Norbert shook his head. Well, howd you get here?

By er, plane, if you must know. Now, really, why so many questions?

You got yourself your own plane?

Master George slammed his hand against the counter. Yes! Is this a post office or a trial by jury? Now, please, Im in a great hurry!

Norbert whistled through his teeth, not taking his eyes off Master George as he slid the box closer to him. Then, reluctantly, Norbert looked down, a little worried the stranger might disappear once they broke eye contact.

The box was filled to the rim with hundreds of envelopes, yellowed and crumpled like theyd been trampled by a herd of buffalo, the addresses scrawled across the wrinkly paper in messy blue ink. Each frumpy envelope also bore a unique stamp-some of which looked to be rare and worth serious money: an Amelia Earhart, a Yankee Stadium, a Wright Brothers.

Norbert looked back up at the man. So, you flew in your own plane to the middle of Alaska in the middle of November to deliver these letters and then youre heading back home?

Yes, and Ill be sure to tell Scotland Yard that if theyre in need of a detective to ring you straight away. Now, good sir, is there anything else I have to do? I want to make absolutely sure there will be no problem in the delivery of these letters.

Norbert shrugged, then shuffled through the stack of envelopes, verifying they all had stamps and proper addresses. The letters were destined to go everywhere from Maine to California, from France to South Africa. Japan. China. Mexico. They were headed all over the world. And by the looks of it, the man had estimated the required postage to perfection.

Well, Ill have to weigh each one and type the location into the computer, but they look all right to me on first glance. You wantin to stick around while I check them all?

Master George slipped a fat wallet out of his jacket pocket. Oh, I assure you the necessary postage is there, but I must be certain. Here. He pulled out several hundred-dollar bills and placed them on the counter. If you find that additional postage is required, this should be more than sufficient to pay in full. Consider the rest as a tip for your valuable service.

Norbert swallowed the huge lump in his throat. Uh, sir, I can tell you right now it wont take nearly that much. Not even close.

Well, then, I will return home feeling very satisfied indeed. He squinted at Norberts name tag before tipping his head in a formal bow. I bid you farewell, Norbert, and wish you the very best.

And with that, Master George slipped back out into the frigid air.

Norbert had a sneaking suspicion hed never see the man again.

Norbert had just placed the box of odd letters on a shelf under the front desk when an even stranger character than the finely appareled English gentleman stepped into the quiet post office. When the woman walked in the door, Norberts mouth dropped open.