The 58th Keeper

by R. G. Bullet

  They moved on, meandering through the various rooms. Forbes continued, “—that’s the Lord Chancellor’s residence. He lives here and even has his own garden. The Palace of Westminster is very modern, only 150 years old. However, the original site had been around for a thousand years, but unfortunately in the first half of the nineteenth century it burned down. And when it was rebuilt, a lot of people complained.”

  “Well, I think it’s amazing,” said Archy. “And everyone loves Big Ben.”

  “Ahh now, Big Ben is the name of the thirteen-ton bell. But no one in London would understand you if you asked for directions to The Clock Tower.”

  “Why is it called Big Ben?”

  “Well, it’s a bit of public confusion. The bell was commissioned by a popular politician of the time whose name was Ben…”

  Archy interjected. “—and he was large?”

  Forbes laughed. “Precisely!”

  They stopped by a wooden phone booth. “I’ll just find out if everything’s clear. Excuse me a minute, please, Mr. Bass,” Forbes said.

  As he waited, Archy imagined that an important meeting must be going on because people dashed past and kept disappearing into various rooms.

  “Right we are. Green for go,” said Forbes, hanging up the phone. “They’re looking forward to meeting you. There are several ways of getting there. We won’t go through the House of Lords today, as they’re sitting. I’ll have to show you an alternate way. SOTS must keep up a formal image.” He lowered his voice. “They have two sets of offices, the governmental dusty ones where no one ever goes, and another secret set where very few go and where we’ll be going today. If it sounds confusing it is and isn’t, much, and yet… it has to be. For security purposes.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind—follow me.”

  They walked a short distance, took a left turn through an unimportant looking doorway and out into a courtyard. A stone pathway ran to the middle and on every side there were dozens of other doors, all exactly the same size and shape. It was terribly confusing to Archy, but Forbes seemed to know where he was going. They went through one door, and then made their way down a dark, clattering escalator. At the bottom they came to an underground station similar to all the others in London, except this one was totally empty, and the only hint of life was an overhead sign that flashed: SOTS—Next Train 2 Minutes.

  They stood in silence for a while until Archy asked the question he was bursting to find the answer to. “SOTS—what is it exactly?”

  “SOTS has two meanings.” Forbes began flicking specks of fluff off his sleeve. “The first took months to develop. It stands for: Secondary Ombudsman to the Transit Symposium. That’s the governmental title,” he added. “It’s merely a front developed by Lord Boniface. It evokes no curiosity at all. No one ever wants to deal with ‘secondary’ in Parliament, and hardly anyone bothers to find out what Ombudsman means. In the ninety-seven years since its conception only three people have troubled to write to us and ask what we actually do.” He let out another strange, sniffing laugh.

  Archy still had no idea what SOTS had to with the rug.

  Forbes continued. “I can assure you the response is so extraordinarily dreary it’ll put you to sleep. The words, when joined together, actually lead the mind into a daze. Pure psychological genius! Better than any hypnosis. It’s a ruse to bore people and keep them away. Literary tranquilizer, I call it. Would you like to hear a part of it?”

  Archy nodded.

  Forbes turned to face him. “The Secondary Ombudsman’s structuralism account in which and via and not pertaining to all kinetic adjustments correspond. Such permissions grant the withholding of sectional grids for the legalese sublimates, clause one, paragraph five, sections B from listing incremental exposures, and strategies of the re-articulation of power—”

  Archy began to yawn after the first sentence. “I feel like my mind switched off. I feel…sleepy.”

  “Isn’t it strange?” said Forbes, his face contorting into an odd expression as he stifled a strong urge to yawn. “If I were to finish it you’d be practically comatose. I use the first page to get off to sleep at nights. Never fails,” he added.

  Archy shook his head to get rid of the drowsy feeling. “And what does the other meaning of SOTS stand for?”

  “Sentinels of the Shroud,” Forbes said proudly.

  Archy repeated the words under his breath.

  He heard a distant noise from the tunnel and the platform began to tremble.

  “And the doorways upstairs in the courtyard... has someone ever entered them and found this station?” Archy asked.

  “Ahh, no, it’s one of my favorite parts of the Houses. They are often referred to as the flawed doors. They’re viewed as nothing more than an eccentric signature of Mr. Pugin, assistant to the architect.” Forbes’s voice rose in volume as a tube-train approached. “They’re an ingenious device keeping the real entrance in perpetual motion. It’s linked to the tidal flow of the Thames, you know, and other astral factors. Anyone who doesn’t know the secret will never pick the right door.”

  Archy watched as a roofless tube-train pulled into view. It didn’t have a driver and there was no one else on board. It hissed to a stop.

  “The secret is only known by the sentinels and a small number of staff—and of course the Keeper,” said Forbes as they stepped on. They sat on a plush leather sofa with a small table by its side, which looked to Archy like it was taken out of someone’s living room.

  The train lurched forward and trundled off into the dark tunnel. As it gathered speed, the warm wind rushed through Archy’s hair and he thought of Alturus almost certainly working nearby.

  A short while later they arrived at a station which had the letters SOTS in brown tiles on the curved walls. They walked along the platform, passed some idle escalators and turned into an alcove to stand by a filthy metal door. A dented sign: Maintenance only. Access prohibited! was riveted to its front.

  “Here we are then,” said Forbes. He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. “Mr. Bass, it’s been a great pleasure to meet you. I do hope to see you again.” He swung the door open to reveal a small, grubby elevator. It looked like it had been smeared with brown boot polish.

  “Oh! I should mention it’s only in political circles they’re referred to as Lords. Here, in their own quarters, we use the official term of Sentinel.” He pulled back on a screeching trellised gate and held out the palm of his hand, gesturing for Archy to enter.

  Archy stepped in cautiously, and positioned himself in the middle, careful not to touch the sides. Knowing Forbes was about to leave, he couldn’t resist another question.

  “Do you think SOTS will accept me as a Keeper? Alturus said they have never accepted a boy before.”

  Forbes shook his head, and for a second Archy felt as if his heart might stop.

  “I don’t know, Mr. Bass. You can only do your best.” He gave him a warm smile and pushed the gate back, pointing to the buttons near Archy’s shoulder. “Press numbers five, eight and the Stop buttons simultaneously. That should get you there. Goodbye and good luck.”

  Archy did as he was told and the elevator shunted upward, making his stomach drop. He stood perfectly still, listening to it rattle along. It soon whined to a stop. The door opened automatically and he stepped out to be greeted by a very tall butler with a long, angular face. Archy had to tip his head back to look up at him.

  “Hello, is this SOTS?” he asked.

  “Good evening, Mr. Bass. It certainly is. Please come in.”

  Chapter 18

  SOTS

  The butler led Archy through a polished wooden hallway to an oval-shaped room. Wing-back chairs lined the walls. Archy’s attention was drawn to the panoramic view of the Thames in front of him, so he got a fright when he heard a cough and looked behind him to see twelve elderly men standing there, wearing long red robes and white wigs. Their eyes fixed on him.

  “My sentinels, may I p
resent Mr. Archibald Bass,” the butler announced.

  One of the sentinels walked slowly over to shake Archy’s hand. As he approached he took his wig off to reveal similar white hair parted cleanly on one side. His eyes were almost translucent except for a hint of blue. Archy saw a portcullis and feather motif woven in gold on the front of his lapel, the same as the red wax seal from the invite.

  “Hello, Mr. Bass,” he said, offering out a bony but steady hand. “I’m Sentinel Remnant. It’s my pleasure to meet you finally.” His voice was clear and vibrant despite his apparent age.

  “Thank you for inviting me, sentinel.”

  As soon as Archy spoke a few low mumbles rumbled from the group.

  “Firstly, I must apologize for the delay,” said Sentinel Remnant. “My colleagues and I were in a rather somber debate. But enough of that for now—let’s dine. You must be ravenous. I can introduce you as we go. No rush.”

  There definitely wasn’t any kind of rush. The others moved slowly and waited for Sentinel Remnant to walk through their midst. Archy could still feel their eyes on him. A few nodded, others smiled, but a couple of them appeared cold and detached.

  Sentinel Remnant led the way through to an impressive dining room with tapestries hanging on each wall, and indicated for Archy to sit at the end of a vast and polished wooden table.

  “There are several highly appreciated privileges here at SOTS. One is to order anything you like. And I do mean anything! There are no menus here. Our chefs will cook it immediately. Feel free to try it out.”

  “Anything?” said Archy, feeling the butler push the chair up against the back of his knees for him to sit. The sentinel to his left snapped his napkin open and Archy copied him, laying it across his lap.

  “Absolutely. Allow me to demonstrate,” said Sentinel Remnant, lifting his finger to summon the butler, who stood nearby. “Good evening, Sparrows.”

  “Good evening, Sentinel Remnant,” said the butler, bowing his head all of an inch.

  “Tonight, I think I will have, hmm—fresh Brazilian lobster and Dover Sole kebabs over lemon basmati rice, with a serving of truffle sauce and a side order of quail’s eggs in aspic. And I will have salad of Arabian lettuce with South African cherry tomatoes, topped with fresh Welsh herbs.”

  “Exquisite choice, sir, and to drink?”

  “A glass of Châteaux Lafite 87...1787, that is.”

  “Naturally, sir.”

  Sparrows looked at Archy, “And for you, sir?”

  Archy felt his stomach rumble. He wasn’t sure if it was just nerves or if he was that hungry. But he did know exactly what he wanted. His favorite.

  “I’d like Toad-in-the-hole, crispy roast potatoes, fresh peas, broccoli, gravy and…” he paused, “…and a portion of chips with mustard and mayonnaise.”

  “Outstanding, sir. Anything else?”

  “Some of those Arabian cherry tomatoes, please.”

  “And to drink?”

  “Uh, I’d like to try—” He thought hard for a moment and came up with something that would surely be impossible to get, “…an original bottle of Coke.”

  Sparrows bowed imperceptibly. “It will be with you shortly, sir.”

  Archy looked at Sentinel Remnant. “I meant to say South African cherry tomatoes.”

  Sentinel Remnant chuckled. “Excellent! Let’s see if we can catch him, then. If he doesn’t bring exactly what you requested, I’ll sack him myself.” He winked.

  Archy suspected that Sparrows would get it right. He watched him take the entire table’s order without writing anything down. The sentinels’ choice of food was explicit and they all reeled off extravagant dishes—all except the quiet sentinel to Archy’s left, who ordered fish-head soup, a bowl of crackers and a glass of mineral water. That sentinel, Archy thought, would have loved the food at Rushburys.

  When Sparrows left, a few questions started to trickle in. One bespectacled sentinel at the far end of the table asked about his former foster parents, another about Rushburys, and another about his friends and rugby. It was with the next question Archy became acutely aware that his replies were being studied closely.

  “I am Sentinel Gibbons, Mr. Bass. You chose broccoli, unusual for a boy of your age, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I like it,” said Archy. “Matron Overly says it’s good for the heart.”

  One of the sentinels, an extremely short man who had to clutch the side of the table to peer over, fired a question at him. “Do you always listen to your elders’ advice, Archibald?”

  “That’s Sentinel Yeoman,” whispered Sentinel Remnant out of the corner of his mouth.

  “I always listen, yes,” Archy replied.

  Sentinel Yeoman nodded slowly in response, his large reading glasses clicking on the rim of the table.

  The tone of the next sentinel’s voice sounded quite bitter. “I found your choice for dinner ordinary, Bass.”

  “Ah, now, this is Sentinel Fleury,” said Sentinel Remnant. “Chief of Security.”

  Fleury was the sentinel who had sent the invitation to come tonight. Archy noted that Sentinel Fleury had a puffy, red face and an ostentatious handlebar mustache. There was an aggressive edge to him, similar to Mr. Elms. “Pray tell us, are all your choices and moves so commonplace… are you a predictable person, Mr. Bass?”

  There were murmurs of disapproval but the question wasn’t retracted and it lingered over the table like a hangman’s noose.

  “I don’t think so, Sentinel. I chose to be with you tonight, after all.” He couldn’t believe he had said it. His own words surprised him and underlined the change he felt was taking place since the rug had come into his life. He almost regretted it.

  But the reply brought a few chuckles. A very loud chortle shot out from Sentinel Yeoman, who removed his glasses to wipe his eyes. Archy thought that even Sentinel Fleury himself grinned, albeit ever so slightly.

  At that moment the food arrived on a huge trolley, wheeled in by Sparrows. When the table was piled high, words were uttered in Latin and the dinner began.

  Sentinel Remnant rubbed his hands together, and then snapped his napkin open. “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard a response like that, Archy,” he said. “Most people just buckle under Fleury’s questions.”

  Archy’s Toad-in-the-hole was delicious. The sausages were perfectly cooked. He dipped each chip first in mayonnaise and then in mustard, relishing each bite.

  Sentinel Remnant pushed his salad plate next to Archy’s salad and they compared the tomatoes. They were clearly different.

  “We’ll catch old Sparrows next time, eh?” he said.

  Archy reached for his glass, took a sip, and spat the Coke back.

  “Got to be careful what you ask for, Archy.” He smiled. “Not to your liking, then?”

  “It tastes weird!”

  After a dessert of toasted hazelnut and chocolate ice cream with caramel topping, Sentinel Remnant invited Archy to another area of SOTS so that they could discuss matters further.

  Sparrows led him out back to the entrance. “I’ll show you down to the Inner Hall first, Mr. Bass. You’re young and can move a lot quicker. No point waiting up here. The sentinels like to make all decisions down there. I do hope you understand,” said Sparrows, cranking the handle of an antique telephone on the wall. “Ready now, Usher, start her up if you would.”

  Sparrows smiled while they waited, although Archy had no idea exactly what they were waiting for. There was nothing in the area that he could see, other than the phone and an empty hat rack. Then he heard a trundling noise coming from behind the wall.

  Sparrows slid a large wooden panel to the side, revealing a strange conveyer-type elevator. Box-shaped compartments rotated from top to bottom as if dropping from the ceiling. It didn’t stop. When one box dropped, another appeared.

  “Just hop in when you’re ready, Mr. Bass,” said Sparrows. Archy watched as Sparrows waited for one or two of the compartments to roll past and get his timing right bef
ore stepping in. “Don’t hesitate,” said Sparrows disappearing through the floor.

  Archy hopped into the very next one, pushed himself against the back, held a handle and was dipped into darkness.

  The strange elevator clattered along as much as the one he had taken earlier. His ears popped and the temperature fell along the way. After what felt like a long time in darkness, a light source grew under his feet and the hissing sound got louder. Finally he came down through a hole in a curved, stone ceiling supported by large pillars. Sparrows stood ready and helped Archy jump out.

  “Sorry about that, Mr. Bass. We don’t use it that often. It’s steam driven. The brakes are shot and we’ve had trouble updating it. It’s a bit dangerous,” he added, rather pointlessly.

  Archy looked around to see tombs in alcoves. Each tomb had sculptured marble figures on top. Some clutched swords along the length of their bodies. Others had lions and dogs at their feet. Torches lit the area and Archy found it especially creepy.

  “Welcome to St. Stephen’s Crypt,” said Sparrows, following Archy’s gaze. “Most of these fellows are from the Crusades,” he said. “If there’s time tonight I can ask our chief usher to tell you a little more about who’s who down here but I imagine things will go haywire.”

  Archy wasn’t sure he wanted to know what “haywire” meant. Just then a wooden door opened across from where they were standing. Archy glimpsed a magnificent-looking hall behind them, light-filled and spacious, with two rows of benches and a grand chandelier, before the doors swung shut. The chief usher bustled out with four ushers carrying mattresses. He had a rotund face and looked like he barely fit into his black suit and yellow waistcoat. He buzzed back and forth like a bumblebee.

  “Positions everyone,” said the chief usher, clapping loudly above the hiss of the elevator. “We don’t want any incidents.”

  The ushers each shot furtive looks at Archy while laying the mattresses on the floor, making a kind of pathway from the elevator. No sooner had they finished than the first sentinel arrived. Archy saw the hem of the flowing robes as he descended.