Frederik Sandwich and the Mayor Who Lost Her Marbles

by Kevin John Scott

  The elephant turned, tearing shelves from walls and walls from one another. The upstairs sagged, the ceiling held up by the elephant’s back and nothing more. And as he tore himself from the shell of Venkatamahesh’s shop, the upper floors collapsed completely, caved inward, and fell in a cloud of brick dust and broken wood.

  The elephant stopped in the street and turned his eyes on Venkatamahesh. He sneezed. Flapped his ears.

  The Ramasubramanian Superstore, the apartment above, the students’ flat above that, and three more floors of living rooms had been utterly demolished. There was nothing recognizable left standing. Chunks of masonry crumbled and fell to the sidewalk.

  Way overhead, the brilliant beam of the searchlight lanced from the lighthouse into the heart of the Garden Park. There was a faraway thud, and silver fireworks exploded in the darkening sky. A chorus of crackles. Distant cheers. Blue stars, orange stars.

  The huge bull elephant stamped his feet and the roadway shuddered some more. And then, from the hole in the ground by Municipal Hall, his sisters and wives and daughters emerged one by one. And Rasmus Rasmussen. And one of the detectives. The detective was extremely dusty. He sat down in the street and stared at the gap where the store had been.

  Venkatamahesh was staring too. A hesitant smile was playing at the corners of his mouth.

  “Padma!” Rasmus was heading briskly toward the setting sun. “Renuka!”

  The bull elephant had marched away toward the pond and the blue house and the yellow. The others were following, saggy behinds silhouetted against the glare, fireworks popping and bursting overhead.

  “Come back!” called Rasmus. “Oh boy. This is going to be hard to explain.” He broke into an ungainly jog, trying to catch them before they demolished anything else.

  “What fun,” said Pernille.

  “I still haven’t found my parents,” Frederik blurted. “Where can they be?”

  He stared at the ruined shop and the enormity of it all caught up with him. He had triggered an earthquake and a flood, stolen the mayor’s marbles, and wrecked the underside of Municipal Hall. He’d sprung two prisoners, assaulted a detective, and destroyed conspicuous real estate directly outside the mayor’s window. And what had he imagined would happen next? He hadn’t. He hadn’t thought about it. He’d been so intent on rescuing everyone that what happened next had seemed irrelevant.

  But he couldn’t just go home and hope it all blew over. He was the greatest, most prolific breaker of rules in the history of Frederik’s Hill. He turned to Pernille. “The mayor will never forgive us. She’ll hunt us down with every resource she has.”

  “Then we will stop her,” Pernille said. “Now. Right now. She’s a hypocrite. A liar. We must bring her down once and for all. We must stop her canceling my adoption. We must stop her deporting your parents. We must stop her. Forever.”

  Frederik took a deep breath. “There might be a way.”

  “I knew we’d think of something. We always do, you and I.”

  They ran across the street, past the parking lot, the pond, and the never-open gallery. The gates of the Garden Park were dead ahead. But shut! Padlocked. A sign: Special event. No admittance. Pernille leapt at the fence. Used her long legs to clamber up and over the top. She hung there, swaying more than six feet in the air. She grabbed Frederik’s hand and hauled him up. He teetered at the top, about to topple, somehow got his balance, dropped into the park.

  They sped toward the canal and the door in the floor. Fireworks clattered overhead. The sound of the crowd and the orchestra beyond the trees. And once again, the feeling that the ground was not quite right. Ripples in the subsoil, tremors in their shoes.

  “What’s causing all this shaking?” she panted.

  “Me. I was back at the…”

  And then he paused.

  In front of them, in weird slow motion, the door in the floor was rising into the air. It hovered five feet above the ground. And then, like a cork from a champagne bottle, it flew into the sky, propelled by a thundering eruption of Volcanade.

  “…brewery,” he added.

  “You did this?”

  “Yes.”

  “For me?”

  “Yes.”

  She gave him an unexpected hug. “I love it.”

  They galloped along the edge of the canal, fireworks reflected in the water. They hurried over bridges and lawns, rushed through rushes and trees, and there, dead ahead, was the catering marquee, stacked with fancy foods on fancy platters. The castle ramparts beyond, crowded with almost every resident of the borough. The bonfire raft in the boating lake was ablaze, splashing reds and vivid oranges into the deep-blue evening. Her Ladyship the Mayor’s International Midsummer Festival.

  Chapter 25

  A Selection of Very Bad Things

  They crept through the shadows to the back of the stage. The VIP table faced out to the hillside. There were foreign dignitaries, members of the government, and center stage, lit up by the blinding beam of the lighthouse searchlight, sat Her Ladyship the Mayor and Her Majesty the Queen, side by side, exchanging chitchat, raising a toast.

  Another shudder swept underfoot. There were gasps from the hillside. Heads turned at the head table.

  The mayor bent to the queen and whispered something. She slid her chair back and stood. Her dress was an elegant blue, her arms bare. There was a microphone on a stand. “Goodness me,” she told the crowd in a jovial tone. “Aren’t these little vibrations fun? All part of the show, I assure you. All planned. Nothing to worry about.”

  “She’s lying to them all,” said Frederik. “Like always. She hasn’t planned any such thing.”

  But as though she had, in a sudden sweep from left to right, nine magnificent fountains erupted from the boating lake. A layer of lemony fizzing froth settled on the surface of the water. Volcanade. The crowd oohed and aahed.

  The mayor yelped and lost her thread, but only for a moment. She gripped the microphone, improvising brilliantly. “May I present the newly restored and long missed fountains of Frederik’s Hill!” And a roar of approval echoed down from the crowd.

  “I don’t believe it,” spat Pernille. “She’s getting away with this. They like her more than ever. They’ll swallow anything she tells them.”

  The foreign dignitaries rose to give the mayor a standing ovation. The queen got slowly to her feet.

  “This has to stop,” Pernille wailed.

  The queen reached for the microphone. The audience hushed, dazzled by the fire, the fountains, and the mayor’s finest moment.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the queen said, her small voice relayed across the hillside by hundreds of high-fidelity speakers. “What a wonderful evening. Allow me to congratulate Her Ladyship the Mayor of Frederik’s Hill.”

  Frederik and Pernille clambered up the back of the stage. The searchlight threw the surrounding lawns into deep shadow. No one could see them. Not yet. But soon. When they crossed into that pool of brilliant light. They would have to be quick. They would have to be like lightning. But what exactly would they do?

  “Kamilla Kristensen,” said the queen, “has proved herself a champion of our little nation.”

  Frederik stayed low, keeping to the shadows, feeling extraordinarily exposed with thousands of people staring at the women just in front of him. Pernille grabbed his arm. “What’s the plan?” she hissed.

  “I haven’t got a plan.”

  “We need a plan.”

  “I know we need a plan.”

  “Then make one.”

  “You make one!”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Neither do I!”

  The queen held up the medal for all to see. “And it gives me such pleasure to present Her Ladyship Kamilla Kristensen, tonight, right now, before you all, with the National Medal for Civic Service.”

  The m
ayor dipped her head. The queen draped the chain over her shoulders. The mayor turned to the microphone.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I am so—”

  “Where are my parents?”

  Frederik would forever after wonder why he did it. There was no conscious decision. No thought process. He simply stood tall, ran at high speed into the glare of the spotlight in front of thousands of people, and shouted. At the mayor. In front of the queen.

  The effect, to be fair, was impressive.

  For starters, the mayor did not get to enjoy her moment of glory. And that, without doubt, was a good thing. It was perhaps the only good thing, however. And it was directly accompanied by a selection of very bad things.

  For example, the three elite palace guardsmen who pounced in a heartbeat on top of Frederik’s head. Also, the posse of TV people who swung into Frederik’s field of vision and stayed there, pointing their cameras at him. Then there was the glimpse of Pernille, sailing awkwardly through the air and landing on the dining table in front of the queen.

  Pernille grabbed the microphone, stood on the table, completely ignored the gathered officials, and addressed the enormous crowd.

  “Ahem,” she said. “Well. Yes. Good evening.”

  There was a howl of feedback and everyone winced. A security guard was moving rapidly toward her, reaching out a massive hand. Frederik grabbed the guard’s ankle. He toppled like a bowling pin and sprawled under the table. The queen shrieked, and another heavily armed soldier was deployed, this time in entirely the wrong direction, and became wedged between some chairs in full ceremonial uniform.

  “Get down off that table,” the mayor was shrieking. “Get down at once! How did you get here?”

  “This whole event,” Pernille announced, at booming, echoing volume, “is a sham!”

  A gasp swept the crowd.

  “The mayor is not who she seems!” Pernille was gaining confidence, getting louder. “She is a fake! A fraud! She has duped us for years. Nothing she says can be trusted. She is despicable. Disgraceful.” She paused. To assess her impact. To see who was with her.

  But even from his cramped position, head pressed to the floor, and several troops of the household cavalry sitting on him, Frederik could see who was with her.

  No one.

  The foreign VIPs were whispering outrage. The folk of Frederik’s Hill were staring, shocked and ashamed, at the girl on the table, embarrassing the mayor, embarrassing the queen, embarrassing everyone.

  And then Pernille realized too. Her shoulders slumped. Frederik wanted desperately to reach her but couldn’t.

  A storm of security guards and police arrived all at the same time. Pernille was hoisted off her feet, off the table, and off the stage.

  The mayor retrieved the microphone and stood tall, in all her finery, thrusting her chin out at the voters, summoning the political skills that had won election after election. “A graphic example,” she declared, “of why we need controls on foreigners in our borough.”

  “She was born right here!” Frederik shouted, but no one heard, and a soldier jabbed him in the ribs.

  “With all due respect to our assembled overseas guests,” the mayor purred, “we must ensure that malcontents from other lands are rooted out and ejected.” She breathed the word with chilling malice. The crowd nodded and applauded.

  The mayor turned to the queen. “Your Majesty, this is a reminder of the plots against your realm. I volunteer to deal with them. All of them.”

  The queen was nodding too, regaining her calm. “Yes, well, that might be necessary, I suppose.”

  The mayor smiled.

  “Your Worthyship! Hey! Down there! Your Worthyship!”

  The voice was brash, brusque, and it came from high on the hillside. The soldiers got up to look, releasing the pressure from Frederik’s head. He peered between the queen’s legs. The crowd on the hillside was parting down the middle, like a gangway. And weaving down the gangway, rosy face lit up by the bonfire, was Henrik Hotdog.

  “Here they are, Your Worthyship!” he shouted. “We brought them all.” And he cackled out loud to the dismay of respectable citizens.

  “Be quiet!” the mayor retorted. “Security? Where are you?” They were mostly right behind her, sitting on Frederik and Pernille.

  Henrik Hotdog was approaching the foot of the hillside now and the edge of the boating lake. Picnickers and partygoers drew back from him, horrified. A man attempted to challenge him but earned a firm shove in the chest.

  “Sorry we’re late!” Henrik shouted. “There were loads of the bloody things. Took us ages.”

  “What things?” the mayor spat, crackling with anger.

  “Them horrible things up there!” Henrik replied, and he pointed to the top of the slope.

  Frederik wriggled till he could see. There were thousands of festival goers, all across the hillside, in summer dresses and shorts and party hats. Their faces flickered orange with the firelight. On top of the hill was the yellow face of the castle, the national flag flapping above its green copper roof. And between the back of the crowd and the front of the castle, a line of gray faces stared coldly down the hill. Chilling, stone statues positioned side by side across the brim of the steep ramparts. Hundreds of them, ingeniously mounted on anything with wheels.

  “My marbles,” the mayor breathed, aghast.

  “Is that what you call them, Your Worthiness? Bloody heavy is what I call them.” And Henrik cackled out loud again. “Anyway. Glad to be of service.” He turned to the crowd. “Who’s for hot dogs? See me at the cart at the top of the hill. Special festival prices. Only fifty percent higher than usual.”

  “Wait!” the mayor spluttered. “What?” She seemed unable to process the sight of the statues at the top of the slope.

  “I recognize those,” said the queen, craning to stare across the crowd.

  “Ah,” said the mayor. “I can explain.”

  “Some of them are from my palace. They went missing. Years ago.”

  “Yes!” the mayor said. “And I found them. Restored them for you.”

  “They don’t look very restored.”

  “She’s lying!” Frederik wailed from the floor.

  The crowds on the hillside were confused. Few could see the marbles above and behind them. Too many people in the way.

  “Bring them forward,” the queen instructed. “Whoever is up there, bring them forward.”

  For a moment, nothing happened. And then, Calamity Claus appeared. He took hold of a statue in a stroller, and he hauled it to the very edge of the hill where everyone could see it. But just at the critical moment, something seemed to catch his eye. He let go of the stroller and pointed down the hillside, past the lake, and somewhere beyond Frederik’s head.

  “Oooh!” he exclaimed at the top of his voice. “Look down there! An elephant!”

  Chapter 26

  Only You

  All across the hillside, people started pointing and snapping pictures. “Elephants! Ooh, aren’t they big?”

  The palace guards were looking and pointing too, and a little less calmly. “Elephants! Get the queen to the car.”

  “No!” the mayor shrilled above the hubbub. “Nonsense, Your Majesty. This is all part of our planned entertainment. Our fabulous fountains, the newly restored marbles. And what festival would be complete without an elephant or two?”

  “Or possibly seven,” said a soldier. “Heading this way. Get the queen out of here!”

  From the deepening darkness behind the stage, a figure came suddenly running, waving his arms, belly bouncing and face all red. Rasmus Rasmussen. He scrambled up the back of the stage and collapsed across the dining table, knocking over a glass of wine and staining his sleeve with marinara sauce.

  “Slight problem!” he croaked. “Nothing I can’t handle. Just need to…” And then his ey
es locked on something out beyond the crowd.

  Something at the top of the hill.

  “Oh no,” Frederik breathed. “Oh no.”

  “Zombies!” Rasmus howled like a wounded animal. He shoved the table aside, tipping several dignitaries off their chairs. Grabbed the microphone. Yelled. “Zombies! The zombies are here! They’re behind you! Run! Run!”

  The International Midsummer Festival had hardly gone flawlessly up till then. Several events entirely unmentioned in the official program had caught everyone by surprise. But none of them quite as surprising as this. After weeks of chatter and twitter and rumor, the folk of Frederik’s Hill were all too ready to believe in the presence of the undead. That became clear as they moved, almost as one, very rapidly down the hill, piling up on the brink of the boating lake, terrified faces frozen in the firelight, fountains gushing Volcanade twenty feet in the air, and fireworks raining tiny, golden stars from the darkening heavens.

  “Zombies!” Rasmus hollered again and again. “Zombies are coming!”

  At the top of the hill, Calamity Claus was just as alarmed as anyone. The marble he’d brought forward got away and started rolling. One by one, jogged and shoved by the fleeing public, the other bicycles and tricycles and skateboards and baby carriages tipped lazily over the edge and followed it down the hillside.

  And now, the screams were coming from the grassy banks themselves, as adults and children, young and old, scrambled in horror from the path of hundreds of hideous, glaring figures cascading down toward the boating lake.

  “Zombies! Run! Save us! Help!”

  And then the back of the stage was crushed under the foot of a vast shadow looming out of the night. The head table was swept aside, and the dignitaries were floored once more by the lash of a massive tusk with a brass cap. The bull elephant roared, wrecked the stage, and marched on the boating lake, his little herd at his heels.

  “Help! Elephants!” people were wailing.

  “Help! Zombies!” screamed everyone else.

  The ground was shuddering and lurching yet again. The elephants tore through the catering marquee. They leveled it. Flattened it. The roof fell in, enveloping trifles and tarts in giant folds of canvas. Gretchen Grondal, hobnobbing by the buffet and trying to re-ingratiate herself, was tipped headfirst into a mound of cream and crushed meringue. And the elephants kept going. Down the grassy bank to the edge of the lake. Into the water.