The Lonely Whelk
by Ariele Sieling
Published by Ariele Sieling at Smashwords
© Ariele Sieling 2014
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means without written permission from the author. The characters and situations are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
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Cover design by Ariele Sieling and Zoe Cannon.
Font by Markus Schröppel.
www.arielesieling.com
www.zoecannon.com
This book is dedicated to:
Great Bay Writers Group
for their support, diligence, and patience.
I never would have gotten this far without them.
PART 1
They called it the Coffin Room, although the boxes in the room were not precisely coffins. The boxes looked like coffins, they were lined with silk, and they even had people in them, but the people weren’t dead. They were sleeping.
The room was long, and Holland could hear Hawkings’ cane clanging loudly, echoing among the boxes with each step he took. Her coffin lay at one end of the room, separated from the rest. A wheel stuck out from the end. His feet scuffed on the ground as he slowly hobbled over to it, leaned his cane against the side with a clank, and grasped the old metal wheel with both hands.
Rows and rows of people sleeping. Holland typically tried not to think about it, as thoughts of coffins filled with people that could wake up did not usually suit for pleasant dreams; although, now that she was waking up, she wouldn’t have to worry about dreams… at least not for the next few minutes. As the wheel turned, the coffin’s lid began to open, slowly and squeakily. It sounded like the gears of an old, giant clock. For the first time in six hundred years, Holland saw light.
Her limbs felt like ice. One leg tingled a bit, and the other felt like a dead log; she twitched her fingers and rolled her eyes around in her head. Her ears were regaining feeling, which was an odd sensation, because she had always imagined that her nose would be first and then the feeling would spread like warm water pouring down her skin. It didn’t feel like that at all. It felt like her son was driving his toy train up her leg while her ex-husband stabbed her in the heart. And here came the emotions. She hated those.
Hawkings’ head appeared over the side of her coffin.
“By god, Hawkings,” Holland croaked. Her voice was rough, as it hadn’t been used in nearly six hundred years. “You look like you’re eight hundred years old!”
“Seven hundred and ninety-three,” he replied, as a broad smile broke into his wizened eyes. His face was partially hidden by a monstrous, pitch black beard and mustache. “You look as young and beautiful as the day we put you under.”
“Has it really been six hundred years?” she asked.
“Yep. Minus two weeks. I had to wake you up early because Old Man Jacobs died last night and the crew was down to just me and Squeak.”
“Jacobs is dead? Does that mean that Captain Abrams and Lady Mastin are dead too?”
“Yes, ma’am. Although, we won’t have much opportunity to miss Lady Mastin. She spent the last two years of her life carefully recording her voice into the computer system.” His voice was scratchy and old-sounding, and it gave the impression that each word he spoke required great effort.
Holland raised her arm. “Ow!” she exclaimed as blood rushed backwards into her body.
“Careful,” said Hawkings, reaching out to take her hand. “I need you healthy and strong to help me wake up the rest of these bastards that spent the last six hundred years sleeping. You know the rules: wake up from stasis, and then you’ve got to sleep for twenty-four hours with your nutrient pack plugged in. Let’s just hope I don’t croak before you get back up.” He gave her hand a little squeeze and then let go.
“No, wait,” she said. “My son.”
“You can watch the briefing vids when you wake back up, sis. But you need to sleep. Or you’ll die. Literally.” Hawkings hobbled over to her med-station, and Holland’s heart broke a little at the sight of his back, bent so far over he looked like a hunchback. He turned a knob and a yellow liquid seeped into the tubes that fed into her box. “You won’t feel anything. It’s just sleeping medication.”
“I don’t want to go… back… to…” Holland took a deep breath and fell silent as darkness rushed into her senses.
“Sweet dreams,” she heard him say as he leaned to kiss her forehead. “Please, wake up soon. So I don’t die alone.”
The rain weaseled its way out of the clouds and through the air, landing cautiously on the ground and slinking into every corner and hole it could find. The street lamps hadn’t bothered to turn on, so the light that lay casually across the sidewalk primarily came from the windows of an old Victorian-style house. The sign that swung in the light wind read, “Gwyn Oliphant, Therapist.” Tall trees buffeted back and forth behind the house, and weeds grew up through the front steps of the porch, making a would-be beautiful house look tired and a little bit eerie.
The light that spilled onto the sidewalk mainly fell on two gentlemen chatting in the living room, because, although it was rather late, Mr. Oliphant had a patient.
“I’m a villain,” said Maxwell Dippings, leaning back in his chair. He glanced at the chair next to him, as though he were non-verbally addressing another person. The chair was, however, empty.
“That’s very interesting,” said his therapist. “What makes you think that?”
“I have an evil plan,” Maxwell replied in a quite straightforward manner. “And I definitely think it will advance my career and my goals.”
“And what would that plan be, hm?” Gwyn Oliphant, XXXV, scribbled rapidly in his legal notepad, a carryover from his days as an intern with Percival Oliphant, Attorney at Law.
“Oh, I can’t tell you.” Maxwell braided his fingers together. “I can only tell my archrival, and then only right before my plan is about to succeed. That’s how being an evil villain works, you know.”
“And who is your archrival, hm?” Mr. Oliphant peered at Maxwell over his half-moon glasses.
“His name is John.” Maxwell smirked. “And boy is he going to regret that.”
“Regret what?” asked Mr. Oliphant.
“Being named John.”
“This is all quite fascinating,” Mr. Oliphant replied. “And what is it about his name that he will regret, hm?”
“Having it.”
“Yes, but why?”
“Oh, I can’t tell you that.” Maxwell took a deep breath. “But I’ll tell you when it’s over. You’ll be so proud. Don’t worry, I can’t fail.”
“What does Maddy think of this plan, hm?” Oliphant asked.
“Ask her yourself!” Maxwell demanded.
Mr. Oliphant turned his body to face the empty chair next to Maxwell. “Well? What do you think of this plan, Maddy?” He then turned his body back to face Maxwell.
Maxwell began to speak in a slightly higher-pitched voice. “I don’t think that Maxwell is really a villain. I think he is simply responding to a world that has labeled him as ‘different.’”
“That is a very interesting perspective, Maddy,” Mr. Oliphant replied, s
cribbling rapidly in his notebook. Maddy had been coming to their sessions for years, and Mr. Oliphant had not yet figured out a good way to tell Maxwell that she wasn’t real.
“Well then, Maxwell, would you care to let me know when your plan is going to go into effect?”
“Right this very instant,” Maxwell said, his voice returning to normal. Without warning, he stood and leaped through the window.
The sound of shattering glass barreled into Mr. Oliphant’s ears as he leaned forward, frowning, and watched Maxwell Dippings land on the pavement a few feet down, shake shards of glass out of his hair, and sprint down the street.
“Thanks for all your help, Mr. Oliphant,” he yelled over his shoulder. “You won’t regret it.”
Mr. Oliphant shook his head. “I should probably call the police on that one, hm.” He glanced at his watch. “But after dinner, I think.”
Maxwell Dippings did not run home, assuming that eventually Mr. Oliphant would, in fact, call the police. Instead, he headed to an old playground which was overrun with weeds, bushes, and small animals that made their homes in the brush. He leaped over the rotting three-foot wooden fence that had once completely surrounded the miniature park, and followed a barely visible winding path of stomped-down weeds towards the main structure. The playground had a slide, a six-foot platform with some holes and a fake steering wheel, and a couple of rope ladders. On the other side of the park, a swing set and some plastic animals on springs stood eerily.
All in all it looked like a faded remnant of a long-forgotten past that smiled cheerfully with the hope that someone – anyone – walking by would stop and take notice. Alas, the happy cries of children were a distant memory for the old, lonely playground, and it tolerated the presence of the odd Mr. Dippings with the hope he might eventually attract other living beings besides rabbits.
Children never played here anymore, in part due to the lack of architectural integrity, and in part due to the fact that Maxwell had spent many nights pretending to be a ghost and scaring away anyone that lingered past dusk. This was Maxwell’s place now, and he wished to keep it entirely to himself. Everyone deserved their space, didn’t they? This was his.
Ducking underneath the slide, Maxwell entered his secret lair. The entrance was no more than a hole in the wood, although he had rigged a cardboard door to help block out the wind and rain. As he stepped in, he reached out to touch a lock of his arch nemesis’ hair for luck. The inside was a large, inelegant hole carved into the ground; he spent hours digging one night, and then had used rusty nails to secure old slats to the structure to make walls. Over time, he had even had the foresight to steal some insulation and put another layer of old wooden slats up to help it stay warm in the winter. Encouraging the weeds to grow up and around the slats as camouflage had proved harder than he had expected, because, while it was quite a ubiquitous species that found ways to take over everywhere it went, they didn’t really grow up as much as out.
In the center of the room was an old charcoal grill. A pipe was taped over a hole in the lid, and rose up to the ceiling. This was for keeping the place warm in the winter. Maxwell used it as little as possible, because he didn’t want anyone coming to investigate a smoking playground. An old rug that smelled a bit like wet possum covered the ground, and a few pillows and a feather blanket made the tiny room a bit more comfortable.
Maxwell settled down onto his favourite pillow, sitting cross-legged and leaning against the far wall. He gazed at the pictures which were tacked over the walls. Most of them were of John, but some were of the Globe building downtown and others were ones that Maddy had taken of Maxwell hiding behind bushes. A large map of the planet graced one wall, and tacks with strings tied to them covered it, marking out Maxwell’s plan in points and pretty colours.
Maxwell looked at his watch and chuckled.
“Now,” he said, “I only have to wait one more day. Wait and it will be mine. All mine. Just mine. Not his, but mine. At the end of today.”
He pulled a small box out from under the rug and opened it slowly. Inside the box was a pencil – a yellow, wooden pencil, with a graphite lead.
“It will be mine,” he whispered again, and curled up in his damp pillows to wait.
The wind buffeted the trees and dragged at Kaia’s sweatshirt as she stood in the middle of a large crowd, which bumped and jostled in the middle of a public park. The Grand Tyrtle Park, a local attraction which hosted exotic trees and evening events, was located on the bank of the Tyrtle River.
The pronunciation of the Tyrtle River was a point of much dissention among Pomegranate City residents; some insisted it was pronounced “Tyre-tell” and others were determined to call it “Turtle.” Currently, the park was hosting a play, due to start in only a few minutes. Early morning shows were a new thing, and Kaia felt that far too many people were attending. Didn’t they ever need to sleep? In addition, they seemed to have grouped themselves based on their pronunciation of the river’s name: people on one side were wearing green and yellow scarves and sweaters; the others were wearing black turtlenecks, most of which proclaimed “TYRE-TEL” in large white letters. Kaia rolled her eyes.
In her hand, Kaia held a letter, postmarked only two days previous, from the Globe Government Center. It read, Meet me at the Bucket Factory. Alone. There was no time or address. It was signed, John.
So here she was, early in the morning, responding to the cryptic note by standing alone in a large group of people who cared far too much about pronunciations and were watching an uninteresting and rather raunchy play. “Bailey and the Bucket Factory” was about a poor boy who couldn’t afford to even own a bucket.
She was hoping that the cryptic message from John was not a prank, but instead about her application to be an intern in the primary office at the Globe for the Interplanetary Creation and Cooperation Committee. John, the gentleman in charge of the internship, was notorious for playing games and testing people. His tactics included knocks on the door in the middle of the night, cryptic messages – sometimes written in invisible ink – and phone calls which at first sounded like prank calls, but if you took them seriously, could change your life.
She looked around. A group of gentlemen in green jackets were laughing raucously at a joke; a family of five sat on blankets staring at the still-empty stage; a wife was pointing angrily at the lipstick stain on her husband’s shirt collar. Kaia jumped as she felt a tap on her shoulder.
“Hello there! I see you got my message!” A thin gentleman in an unbuttoned charcoal Callahan frock coat melted out of the crowd in front of her. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back and a big grin on his face. “I hate this show! How about you?”
“Are you John?” asked Kaia hesitantly, even though he looked as she expected.
“I most certainly am!” He bowed, and then looked at her, head tilted. “Would you like to be my new intern?”
She took a deep breath and tried to swallow the massive grin that threatened to explode from her face. “What about my interview?” she managed to ask.
“Oh you already had one. Your last day of class, the oral exam for Professor Needneon – I wrote those questions.” He grinned. “You scored perfectly. For me anyway, I don’t know about in the actual class.”
“I got an A.” She shook her head, still trying not to appear too excited. “So you’re going to just… just hire me on the spot?”
“Well, I mean, unless you object?” John turned and began to stride rapidly towards the street. Kaia scurried to keep up.
“Oh, no!” she exclaimed. She was having trouble processing that her life’s dream was really coming true. “It’s just that this is... well, unconventional isn’t a problem... but, what if this is just a very elaborate prank and you aren’t, you know… you?”
John came to a halt as they neared the edge of the street and turned to look at her. “That is a valid concern, I suppose. I do like pranks.” He nodded, and then began to recite: “Kaia Elexene Mastiff: your father died
before you were born and your mother disappeared when you were two. You were raised in the South Pier orphanage, schooled at the Elusion Plains College of Advanced Technology and Science, and live in an apartment with your roommate, Jasmin. Jasmin works for the Department of Public Works as a marketing consultant and has a cat named Jezebel. You are 5 feet, 5 inches tall and weigh approximately 129.3 pounds. Your hair is dyed a normal brown but naturally has blue stripes in it, and you have been dating Cary Strand off and on for about fourteen years, but you should break up with him because he’s a jerk.
“You applied for this position at the Globe six years ago and have been finishing your schooling, desperately hoping to hear from our department. Your essay was phenomenal and your writing skills are superb. Your math is also excellent, by the way, although you seem to be a bit weak in the poetry department. Also you are not good at music or art, but that is irrelevant as your imagination seems to function sufficiently.
“After you applied, you then arranged for someone, we won’t name names, to drop reminders off at the various locations where I was likely to be. He was very creative, and tried a number of things from writing your name in graffiti on alley walls, to slipping notes under the doors at the Globe, to—”
“Okay, okay!” Kaia waved her hands in the air and began turning pink. “I believe you.” She looked both ways, and then at John. “Are we crossing the street?”
He smiled as at that moment, a sleek, black, extendible pomobile zoomed up in front of them, hovering nearly three feet off the ground.
Kaia’s eyes widened, and John gestured towards the door. It slid open with a hiss as the car lowered so that it floated a bit closer to the ground. “After you.” He gestured towards the vehicle politely.
Kaia stepped past John and carefully climbed in.
The Lonely Whelk Page 1