But no bright ideas had come to him.
And now, here he was with Eugene and Ray, his traveling companions he’d met up with halfway through his journey, and they were itching to hear an update. He had told Eugene and Ray that he didn’t want to talk about the box until he was back home, since it was so top secret and all. They’d bought his excuse easily enough. But now that he was home, it was only a matter of time until he would have to confess the truth. Mortimer braced himself for an ugly scene and looked around the village.
The gate they’d walked through led to the main square, which was a largeish open area lined with dilapidated one- and two-story buildings. There was a fountain with chronic water pressure issues dripping away in the center of the square. A few roads branched off the square and led to small, rundown homes with pathetic little dusty gardens.
Standing where Mortimer was at the gate, he could look straight past the fountain and down the street across from him, out to the one pretty thing about Coal Harbor: the ocean. The view raised his spirits just a touch. No matter how drearily pathetic a village on shore happened to be, there was no way to make that village’s ocean view drearily pathetic. Oceans could be many things ranging from placid to churning to sparkling to terrifying and everything in between, but they could never be drearily pathetic.
It was early evening, so most of the guys were down in the mines, most of the ladies were cooking dinner or washing stuff or doing whatever ladies did in their houses when the guys were mining, a few kids too young or sickly to be mining were running around in the dusty square, and some elderly guys were sitting by the fountain chatting and coughing and watching the kids.
Eugene smacked Mortimer on the arm to get his attention. “Hey, I’m going to head home. I wanna have Cora look at this cut. Meet you at the inn once the guys are off work?”
Mortimer nodded and watched Eugene hurry off home to have his wife tend to his wound. They had, of course, been attacked on the road. And they had not emerged from the scuffle unscathed. Eugene had been cut across his left arm, Ray had a black eye and a twisted ankle from when he’d tried to run away from the scuffle, and Mortimer had a broken, bloody nose and two black eyes, the result of a particularly powerful punch from a gigantic troll of a dude who had then stolen his wallet as Mortimer lay moaning on the ground, in too much pain to care that the troll was digging through his pockets. With Fritillary’s countryside in the state it was, travelers pretty much had to figure being attacked into their itinerary.
That had been the second wallet he’d lost in the space of just a few days. Yet another indicator that things in Fritillary were getting out of hand.
Mortimer wanted nothing more than to trudge home, clean up his bloody face, and curl up in bed until it was time to go face his friends that evening. But one of the old men by the fountain spotted the travelers and motioned them over. Ray and Mortimer walked wordlessly toward the three old men.
“So you’re back, eh?” asked a grizzled guy with a short, gray beard.
“Indeed we are, Dominic,” Mortimer sighed, and leaned wearily against the fountain’s edge.
“And how did the trip go?” Dominic inquired. It was a mark of how common violence on the road was that the old man didn’t even mention Mortimer’s or Ray’s injuries.
“About as expected,” Mortimer responded.
“You get the you-know-what?”
“I’m going to wait until tonight to talk about it. We’re meeting at the inn,” Mortimer responded and stared at the dusty ground, feeling more and more disappointed in himself with each passing moment. Why had he let the box get stolen? He should never have trusted that accursed maid. “Anything new in the village since I left?”
“Nope. Same old, same old,” Dominic replied, and then began to cough as only an elderly man who has worked in a coal mine since he was eight can cough.
The guys all milled around a moment to see whether the hacking would stop, but, when it devolved into a full-on coughing fit, it became clear to everyone that the conversation was at an end. Ray gave them a wave and wandered off home.
Mortimer asked Dominic, “Need help getting home?” even though he knew Dominic would refuse his offer.
Dominic waved a hand dismissively at Mortimer and coughed on.
“Okay, then, see you around,” Mortimer said. He nodded to the other two old men, and headed home. It could have been merely the power of suggestion, but Mortimer could swear his lungs felt a bit funny. He glanced over the rooftops at the headframe of the coalmine and sighed. As badly as his trip had gone, at least he had had a break from going down into the dark, dangerous, sweltering mine. On his trip to get the box, the fresh air of the countryside (and even the city air full of coal smoke) had done wonders for his own newly-developing chronic cough. He was glad that he was the village’s designated box-retriever, because he was pretty sure that his vacations away from the mine were the only thing keeping the sickness from becoming fully entrenched in his lungs.
But there was no need to worry about health issues when he had plenty more immediate concerns to deal with. The revolution was coming, which he would probably get killed in long before he got a chance to die in old age of black lung.
Dying in the revolution. Now that was something to worry about.
After he’d cleaned the blood off his face and taken a good nap, Mortimer felt tons better. He woke with a bit of time to spare before the meeting at the inn, so he took about ten minutes just to stretch out in bed and relax. It felt like a luxury to him to just lie there—he was always doing something. Every moment of his waking life was consumed by mining, union organizing, revolution organizing, and taking care of his siblings (who, though now all grown and with lives of their own, still looked to him to fix their problems).
After a bit, Mortimer took a deep breath and sat up. He looked around the tiny, sparsely furnished attic room he called home, and was pleasantly surprised to see a few slices of bread and some dried asparagus on a plate on his table by the room’s one window. His sister, whose house he lived in the attic of, must have brought it up while he’d slept. He walked over and ate the food standing, looking out the little window down to the street below. It was nearly dark, but he could make out a few people walking in the direction of the inn. In most towns and villages, the revolutionaries were in the minority and had to sneak around to get to their meetings, but in Coal Harbor, pretty much every citizen wanted the King overthrown, and those who didn’t had the sense to just shut up and let everyone else do their thing.
Mortimer shoved an asparagus into his mouth, grabbed the last piece of bread, and strode to the door. Time to face the music.
The inn, The Piebald Goat, was packed. Mortimer swung the door open and was hit by a wave of ruckus. He took a step back and breathed a steadying breath as he looked in at the cozy pub packed with villagers, most of whom were friends and family. Friends and family who wouldn’t hesitate to scream and yell at him and make him feel horribly guilty once they heard what he had to say. He just hoped, if anyone punched him, they’d keep away from his head since he’d had enough of that lately to last him a while.
“Mortimer!” someone yelled. “Come on in!”
His cousin, Bertrand, who was standing near the door, realized Mortimer was there and pulled him inside. In a matter of moments, everyone was greeting him and asking him about his trip and telling him he looked like a wreck. And, pushing him in the direction of the stage, which was usually reserved for the local bluegrass band The Hullabaloo, but was sometimes used for speeches and such.
Someone pushed him up the steps. He nearly lost his balance but found his footing and turned to face the expectant faces of the villagers.
A few of them kept up their conversations, but most shut their traps and waited.
Mortimer gave a smile that felt more like a grimace. It looked ghastly paired with his black eyes and broken nose.
“Well?” hollered someone from the back. “Where’s the box?”
Mortimer saw the other two leaders of the revolutionaries, Rex and Hughey, making their way up to the stage. This was the way these meetings always went. Mortimer, Rex, and Hughey would all get up on the stage in front of everyone, Mortimer would take out the most recently collected box, Rex would put a key into one of the keyholes on the box’s side, Hughey would put his key into the other side, and they’d unlock it. Mortimer would then open the box and read to everyone present the note that was written on the paper inside, thus ensuring that everyone was on the same page and that there were no secrets. The notes in the boxes always contained two things: one, information about where to find supplies that would aid the revolutionaries, and, two, where and when to find the next box.
You are asking, dear reader, what is up with the mysterious boxes? Well, Mortimer had received the first box from a mysterious stranger at a union meeting two years earlier. It had been the end of the meeting, and everyone had been milling around the refreshments table, wolfing down punch and doughnuts, when suddenly Mortimer had noticed an intense fellow with a scar across his chin watching him.
Mortimer had said, through a mouthful of doughnut, “Hey.”
In response, the guy had swooped up to him and said in a rush, “I have a friend who wants to help you and your cause. A powerful friend. A friend with access to things you need. He wants you to have this.” And he had held up a plain, black bag, offering it to Mortimer.
Mortimer had ignored the bag, and said, “Your friend wants to help me organize a miners’ union? What’s in that bag that could help me organize a union?”
The mysterious stranger had sighed. “No, not this cause. Your other cause.”
Mortimer had clammed up then, since one didn’t share with a stranger information about plans to overthrow the King. Especially if that stranger was super intense and had a scar across his chin.
The guy had said, in response to Mortimer’s silence, “Whatever. Here’s the bag if you want it.” Then the guy had said something that Mortimer hadn’t understood at the time: “The only catch is, for all future boxes, you are the only one who can collect them. Come alone. Each time.” He’d plunked the bag down on the refreshments table between a tray of doughnuts and a plate of devilled eggs and had swooped out.
Once Mortimer was sure the guy wasn’t coming back, he had dropped his play-it-cool charade and grabbed up the bag. He had opened it and dumped the contents out. A little silver box and two keys. On both the box and the keys, there was painted an orange star. He’d easily figured out how to unlock it, and, since Fritillary didn’t have bombs or germ warfare or anything like that, he’d seen no danger in opening it up then and there. He’d read the note and had been shocked to read in it information on where he could find a big stash of weapons. It had also told him where and when he could expect to find the second box.
Mortimer had consulted Rex and Hughey, and they had decided that, though it seemed super suspicious, they should probably check it out. Being young adult males, they’d leapt in with a spirit of invincibility and fearlessness that its usually a bad idea, but, in this particular case, worked out pretty well. As far as they could tell, it had not been a trap, and they had acquired weapons! Score!
Mortimer had been hesitant to go to collect the next box, especially since he had to do it alone, but he’d thrown caution to the wind and had gone for it. That box had contained a note that had directed them to a cave in the King’s nearby wildlife refuge. In the cave, they had found food and medicine.
As time had gone on and the mysterious benefactor had kept helping them (with apparently no ulterior motives), they had begun to fear a trap less and less, until finally it had just become another part of their lives. Sometimes, when Mortimer went on his solo excursions to collect a box, he would catch a glimpse of someone lurking in the shadows, but whoever it was, they didn’t bother him, so he assumed it was just someone making sure he was really coming alone.
He and the villagers had worked out their current system wherein the box was opened, and the note was read only in front of all the villagers, in order to keep things on the up-and-up.
But now, because of Mortimer’s carelessness—letting his guard down in order to flirt with a lady—the box was gone. So, not only were they not going to be able to get whatever supplies their benefactor had planned on providing them, but they also had no way of knowing where the next box was going to be hidden.
No more boxes, no more supplies for the revolution.
It was over.
All over.
Rex and Hughey joined Mortimer on the stage, and they looked at him expectantly, keys at the ready.
Mortimer gave a bleak sort of laugh, and nervously blurted out, “I lost the box.”
He could swear he felt an icy wind sweep through the room, but that was probably just a physical manifestation of the fear he felt as he saw the eyes of every villager stare at him with something that started out shocked confusion but turned quickly to rage.
He put his hands up before himself defensively. “Now wait! Wait! Let me explain!”
But, no, the explanation would only make them angrier.
So far, they were all still too stunned to say anything, so Mortimer quickly added, “Come on guys, it was only a matter of time, anyway, right? I mean, with all the hoodlums running around the countryside, it’s a wonder a box wasn’t stolen sooner. At least the other chapters of the Order of the Orange Star are still getting their boxes, eh?”
The air was filled with a menacing rumble of people murmuring angrily to their neighbors.
“Right, guys?” Mortimer asked, and laughed weakly.
Then the yelling began.
Chapter Twenty-eight
As the maids served up food for the King and Queen, Lillian looked over at her daughter earnestly, and said, “My darling, I’ve been thinking.”
Uh oh, thought Conroy; he listened nervously as he spun his cursed BFF ring around his finger.
“I understand why you are reluctant to marry. I do. You’re afraid that even if you do, the curse won’t be broken. And then you’ll be married to someone who you say you don’t love.” She looked apologetically at Warren and said, “I don’t mean to insult you, my boy.”
“No offense taken, Your Majesty,” he said nervously through a mouthful of watermelon.
Conroy perked up his ears and listened intently. It was starting to sound like Lillian was perhaps changing her mind about the wedding.
Julianna was guardedly optimistic. “Exactly, Mom. That is exactly it.”
“Yes. Well. I just want to give you some advice.” Lillian studied her daughter a moment, then set down her golden fork beside her golden plate in order to give Julianna her full attention. “I have heard it said that arranged marriages have just as much chance at long-term love as do marriages that begin with love. So, you two have a good chance of growing to love each other in the future.”
Serena cleared her throat significantly, indicating she had something to add.
“Yes?” asked Lillian.
“That is, indeed, true,” Serena said, with all the authority of a wedding planner. If anyone knew statistics about marriage success, it was her.
“Well there you have it!” Lillian pronounced triumphantly as though that settled everything and her daughter’s trouble was now solved. “You will in all likelihood grow to love each other!”
Julianna frowned.
Conroy frowned.
Warren chewed on some carrot cake, barely registering their conversation since his plans to blow this Popsicle stand remained the same no matter what anyone said.
Lillian looked at her daughter’s downcast face. Her pep talk hadn’t gone as well as she’d hoped.
Everyone ate silently for a few minutes.
“Hey!” Julianna trie
d to change the subject. “So, Warren’s sister. Farland has her. Dad, you’ll send an army out to try to find her, right?”
“Why would I do that?” Conroy asked, surprised. “The soldiers are all busy with preparing for Conroy Jr.’s first hunt, dear. They’re practicing some really neat marching stuff for the parade. They can’t go traipsing about the country looking for one commoner.” He then actually had the decency to realize that what he’d said might be hurtful to Warren. He looked at his future son-in-law. “Sorry about that. But we have so much to do, you see. After the hunt we’ll send out some soldiers.”
Warren stared at him, fighting an inner battle. He was not a violent dude, but he wanted to punch the King in his stupid face. “Perfectly understandable,” he heard his voice say. “The hunt is very important.”
Conroy nodded. “It’s going to be quite an event.”
“Dad!” Julianna exploded, “How can you be so heartless?”
Conroy turned to her, and said angrily, “You’ve gotten quite uppity since your little adventure, miss. I am the King. No one argues with me. Besides, they’re commoners, dear. They’re used to hardship. It’s not as big a deal to them if something happens to a family member, because they’re always dying in droves. Mining accidents, angry wizards, logging accidents,” he further explained, trying to appease his horrified daughter as he waved a fork in Warren’s direction. “Gang stuff, bar fights, ships sinking, diseases, factory mishaps, starvation, filthy drinking water. And that’s only the tip of the iceberg, eh my boy?” he asked Warren.
Warren gaped at Conroy, wondering whether the King was really asking him to confirm that he didn’t really care all that much about Corrine because commoners didn’t get too bothered when their family members died.
It was into this scene that Conroy Jr. bounced down the stairs.
“Hi, Julianna!” he yelled when he saw her.
“Hi, CJ!” she called, her voice ringing with the false happiness of a grownup who is trying to hide a fight from a kid.
How to Break an Evil Curse Page 25