The Doldrums and the Helmsley Curse

by Nicholas Gannon

  “We didn’t say we believe your grandparents are dangerous,” Adélaïde whispered.

  “Only that it’s obvious something strange is going on,” Oliver added.

  Archer stood to flee, but tripped on the gift Claire had tossed over her shoulder earlier. Pastries took flight, and he went headlong into the Glubs’ Christmas tree. The next thing he knew, he was sprawled across the couch with the tree on top of him. The party hushed as he untangled himself from the evergreen and its trimmings.

  “I’m sorry!” he said, covered in tinsel, scrambling to gather ornaments and pastries from the floor.

  “Don’t you worry!” Mrs. Glub insisted. She swooped in alongside Mr. Glub to right the tree, and though they couldn’t get it to stand straight again, she added, “Look! No harm done!”

  Oliver and Adélaïde watched in silence as Archer brought the decorations and pastries back to the tree and began hanging pastries from the branches instead of ornaments.

  “What’s wrong, Archer?” Mr. Helmsley asked, stepping in to help him. “I don’t believe the Glubs want pastries in their tree.”

  Archer was silent.

  “Why don’t you give those here, Richard?” Mrs. Glub said, taking the ornaments. “Yes, I’ll take the pastries, too. Very good. Now, Archer’s had a long day. Look at him. He’s exhausted. Perhaps it’s best he gets a good night’s sleep.”

  The Glubs stood on the snowy front steps, watching as Archer followed his parents home. Mr. Helmsley paused outside the front door of Helmsley House. A note with a greasy thumbprint was taped to it. He read it aloud.

  “Ralph and Rachel are arriving shortly. Expect them in Helmsley House later tonight or early tomorrow morning.

  —Cornelius”

  Mrs. Helmsley nearly collapsed on the spot. Mr. Helmsley helped her through the door. She fled down the hall. Archer made for the stairs, his head pulsing, but stopped and turned to his father.

  “Why didn’t you tell me what was going on?”

  Mr. Helmsley removed his glasses and rubbed his closed eyelids. “I didn’t want you to worry about something that might not be true, Archer. I’m not sure what the truth is, but let’s hope it’s not worse than the rumors.”

  Archer shook his head. Worse? “How could it be worse?”

  His father didn’t have an answer.

  Archer went to his room and lay awake in bed. The moonlight was on his face as his ears searched the darkness, like many ears do on Christmas Eve. But it wasn’t yet Christmas Eve, and Archer wasn’t listening for sleigh bells. He was listening for footsteps. He was waiting for his grandparents.

  “Are they crazy?” he mumbled, turning to the window, which glittered with moonlight.

  ♦ BREWING ♦

  Outside Archer’s moonlit window and down crooked Willow Street, across the barren treetops of Rosewood Park and beyond the winding canals that emptied into Rosewood Port, a man with a patch covering one of his eyes ran along a lamplit dock that dipped gently with the waves. The Eye Patch had a wooden case tucked under his arm, and his one visible eye searched the horizon. A darkened ship was entering Rosewood Port. The ship didn’t blow its horn, and its engine was low as it drifted past ice floes, sidled up to the dock, and dropped lines around bollards. Two silhouettes emerged on the deck. The Eye Patch called to them.

  “You’re a sight for a sore eye!” His smile faded as he unlatched the wooden case to reveal a bundle of newspapers. “Birthwhistle is brewing a storm.”

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  ♦ YEARS OF WONDER ♦

  Archer awoke to a bustling and clanking of pots and pans. He rubbed his droopy eyes and hurried down to the kitchen. The stovetop was roaring, and Mrs. Helmsley was dashing this way and that, cooking everything she could get her hands on. Archer kept his distance, fearing she might fry him by mistake. His father sat alone at the table.

  “Are Grandma and Grandpa home?” he asked.

  Mrs. Helmsley nearly toppled onto the stove.

  “Not yet,” Mr. Helmsley replied.

  Archer wasn’t hungry, but he didn’t want to meet his grandparents on an empty stomach. He took a plate and a fork and went to the counter, buried beneath eggs and bacon and toast and pancakes and waffles and oatmeal—and his mother showed no sign of slowing.

  “I can’t take much more of this,” she muttered, peering over her shoulder as Mr. Helmsley refilled his coffee. “I was at Primble’s Grocery yesterday, and when I got to the counter, they told me to take my business elsewhere! Where are we supposed to get food?”

  “They’ll sort out whatever is going on,” Mr. Helmsley assured her. “In the meantime, I’d like them to have their room on the third floor.”

  “But we’ve been using it for storage! It’s filled with boxes.” Mrs. Helmsley clicked off the stove and frantically wiped her hands on her apron. “We mustn’t upset them. They might get violent!”

  Mrs. Helmsley hurried up the stairs. Mr. Helmsley sauntered after her.

  Archer panicked, standing alone in the kitchen. He’d been waiting for this moment for as long as he could remember, but now he didn’t think it’d be anything like he’d expected. Overcome with an urge to retreat to his room, he made for the hall, but froze at the sound of a knock at the door.

  All throughout Helmsley House, the animals erupted in joyous furor. Archer had never once heard anything like it.

  “It’s time!” a porcupine bellowed. “It is time!”

  “They’re home!” cheered a zebra. “How do I look? The stripes, I mean. I should have had them pressed!”

  “Shut it, you fool,” the ostrich snapped. “And would someone take this blasted lampshade off my head?”

  “Are you sick?” the badger asked Archer. “You look like you’re going to be sick.”

  Archer was too fixated on the door to respond, and he was so flustered he didn’t realize he was still clutching a fork as he inched his way toward it.

  “We’re gone for nearly twelve years and they change the locks?” came a voice on the other side.

  “I’m sure they were changed the moment we left.”

  ♦ TEA WITH GIANTS ♦

  Archer took a deep breath and opened the door wide. He was immediately engulfed in the blinding whiteness of snow whirling into the foyer. He couldn’t see anyone, but heard two voices, filled with laughter. Archer squinted. Two faces emerged. His eyes widened. Archer was staring at his grandparents.

  “Why, hello there,” they both said, with smiles so large they might crack lesser faces.

  Those three words filled Archer all the way to the top.

  “Hello,” was his nervous and quiet reply. “I’m Archer Helmsley.”

  “How can you be Archer Helmsley?” Grandpa Helmsley asked. “The Archer I had a brief encounter with many years ago was dressed something like a Christmas tree. And if I’m not mistaken, he also had a peculiar fondness for cucumbers.”

  Grandpa Helmsley was as broad as he was tall. His beard, a mix of white and gray, matched his hair, which was pushed back from his forehead. But it was Grandpa Helmsley’s pale green eyes, sparkling with something wild, that held Archer entranced.

  “I don’t think he’s that Archer anymore,” Grandma Helmsley said.

  Grandma Helmsley was smaller but no less brilliant. Her plump figure was hidden beneath a thick coat and a faded red dress. The warmth beaming from her smile could have thawed the whole of Rosewood.

  “He certainly isn’t,” Grandpa Helmsley agreed. Then he pointed to the fork still clutched in Archer’s hand. “You’re not going to . . . what I mean to say is, that’s a little . . .”

  “Hostile,” Grandma Helmsley finished. “I believe that’s the word you’re looking for?”

  “Quite.”

  Archer blushed and dropped the fork into his pocket.

  “Much better.” Grandpa Helmsley glanced over his shoulder as though they were being watched. “Now would you mind if we stepped inside? It’s no iceberg out here, but it is
quite chilly.”

  Archer’s grandparents stepped over the threshold and into Helmsley House as though they’d only just returned from a very long walk.

  “Best shut the door, dear,” his grandmother said. “Rosewood has many prying eyes.”

  Archer closed the door and put his back to it. Stomps and thuds echoed down the stairs.

  “Would that be your parents?” Grandma Helmsley asked, hanging her snow-laden coat on a caribou’s antlers.

  “They’re fixing your room,” Archer explained, his heart pounding.

  “Very good. We did hope to have a moment alone with you.”

  “Forks out of the way!” his grandfather whispered, and with a firm hand on Archer’s back, he ushered him down the hall and into the kitchen.

  Grandma Helmsley inspected the countertop feast and poked a pancake. “Tea,” she said, shaking her head and taking a kettle to the sink. “Best to begin with tea. Builds an appetite for more.”

  “Splendid!” Grandpa Helmsley pulled a chair out from the kitchen table. “And while the water boils, I have a question for you, Archer. Come have a seat.”

  Archer wanted to pinch himself as he sat across the table from his grandfather. His grandparents were practically fictional characters to him. He’d read their journals. He knew their tales. They’d crashed planes in the desert and been lost in jungles. But now, here they were, two giants, stepping off the page and into the Helmsley House kitchen.

  Grandpa Helmsley leaned forward and clasped his strong hands as though he was about to say something very important. “Tell me, Archer, are the stories true?”

  Archer blinked a few times. Stories?

  “He means the tigers,” Grandma Helmsley clarified, pulling a tray from a cabinet and setting three cups on it.

  Grandpa Helmsley slapped the table, his green eyes sparkling. “The tigers!”

  “But more importantly,” Grandma Helmsley said, “that you and two friends put together a plan in the hopes of finding us.”

  “We did,” Archer replied. “But that’s not a good story. We failed miserably.”

  “Miserably?” Grandpa Helmsley roared. “You mean it failed gloriously!”

  “While it was a dangerous thing to have happened,” his grandmother said, lifting the whistling kettle off the stove, “when we heard why it happened, well, we were tickled pink.”

  “I was tickled purple!” Grandpa Helmsley said, his eyes still twinkling. “Outrunning tigers? I’ve never heard of such a thing! You’re a Helmsley all the way to the stars, Archer!”

  “I can’t imagine Helena was thrilled about it,” Grandma Helmsley said, joining them at the table and pouring everyone a cup.

  “No,” Grandpa Helmsley agreed. “But don’t give us this ‘It’s not a good story’ nonsense, Archer. We want to hear all about it. And don’t spare a single detail.”

  Archer had never imagined his grandparents would be eager to hear his story, especially with so many more important things to discuss. When he’d finished telling it, his grandparents were silent. Grandpa Helmsley’s whole face had welled up. Grandma Helmsley patted his shoulder gently.

  “Don’t let your grandfather’s scruffy outsides fool you, Archer. Inside, he’s as soft and sweet as a caramel.”

  Grandpa Helmsley chuckled and cleared his throat. “Forget the caramel, Archer. It’s only that, what I mean is—look at you! You’re completely grown! And we missed it.”

  “Now you’re talking nonsense,” Grandma Helmsley said. “He still has plenty of growing up to do. That’s not to say you’re underdeveloped, Archer.”

  Grandpa Helmsley sized him up. “Tad short for your age. And skinny like your father. But with a bit of elbow grease, you’ll sprout like an oak! The Society will help with that. Once you’re a—”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Grandma Helmsley urged.

  Grandpa Helmsley sipped his tea. “Yes, lots to sort out first.”

  “Like the iceberg?” Archer asked hesitantly.

  Grandpa Helmsley leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “What have you heard, Archer?”

  “Lots of things.”

  “People do love to talk.” Grandma Helmsley shook her head in disgust. “Especially when they’ve not the slightest idea what they’re talking about. Makes them feel clever.”

  “They’re saying you wanted the iceberg to happen,” Archer explained. “They’re saying you wanted to vanish. They’re saying you went—” He stopped, not wanting to tell his grandparents the part about them being unhinged. But it was clear they already knew.

  Grandpa Helmsley reddened liked a stubbed toe. “It’s complete rubbish, Archer. You mustn’t believe a word of it.”

  “So what happened? How did you survive the iceberg?”

  “Well,” Grandpa Helmsley said, running his fingers through his beard. “While I can promise we were on an iceberg, Archer, it wasn’t for two years. It was more like, three days. Give or take.”

  “Three days? So where were you all this—”

  Archer fell silent. His mother had suddenly appeared, standing frozen by the kitchen door, staring at his grandparents’ backs the way one typically stares at ghosts. Grandma and Grandpa Helmsley spun around.

  “HELENA!”

  It was only one word, but even that seemed too much for her. She tried to respond, but instead glugged like a jug of water held upside down. And she went on glugging until eventually, she glugged, “You’re dead!”

  To be fair, it probably wasn’t what she’d planned on saying.

  “I’m dead?” Grandpa Helmsley repeated, winking at Archer as he glanced himself over. “Well, I do wish someone had told me sooner. That’s the sort of thing people like to know. It’s odd, though. I don’t feel dead. Do you feel dead, Rachel?”

  Mrs. Helmsley flushed. “That’s not what I . . . I didn’t mean to . . . I apologize if I—”

  “Now, don’t you apologize, Helena,” Grandma Helmsley said, giving Grandpa Helmsley an eye that said many things. “Ralph’s having a bit of fun with you, is all. It’s as much a shock to us as it is to you.”

  Archer wasn’t sure if that was possible. He’d never seen anyone look more shocked than his mother did. And he guessed her shock would not quickly vanish.

  Everyone got to their feet when Mr. Helmsley entered. Archer’s father looked like a toothpick next to his grandfather.

  “Still as spindly as ever,” Grandpa Helmsley said, clamping his giant hands on Mr. Helmsley’s skinny shoulders. “I told you all that sitting around a law office was no good. It’s never too late to change course! The order may have openings!”

  “You might need a good lawyer,” Mr. Helmsley replied with a smile.

  “Isn’t that what you’d call a conflict of interest?”

  Mrs. Helmsley had been inching her way toward the dining room and finally escaped.

  Grandma Helmsley smothered Archer’s father in a hug and then fixed his hair. “It’s been quite an ordeal, Richard.”

  “Icebergs often are,” he replied, ushering them back to the table. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

  “Archer!” Mrs. Helmsley called. “Please come here immediately. I need help . . . reorganizing the silverware drawers!”

  Archer looked to his grandfather, wanting to join them at the table to find out what was going on.

  “Don’t you worry, Archer,” Grandpa Helmsley assured him. “We’re not going anywhere.”

  ♦ DRIP, DRIP, DRIP ♦

  “I’m going to repeat what I said yesterday,” Mrs. Helmsley said when Archer stepped into the dining room. Her hands were trembling. “It’s very important that you spend more time outside. You should know there are certain accusations against your grandparents. I’m not sure what to believe, but I’m worried they’re not entirely . . . sane. Less so than usual, I mean.”

  Mrs. Helmsley shut the silverware drawer, which looked exactly as it had when she’d opened it, and led him to a closet filled with cleaning supp
lies. “I need to see for myself, and you need to keep yourself busy.” She handed him a feather duster.

  “What am I dusting?” Archer asked.

  Mrs. Helmsley inspected the spotless dining room but, like Archer, saw nothing.

  “The curtains! Dust the curtains!”

  Archer grumbled as he went to the window. Do people even dust curtains? He raised the duster, but paused and peered through a slit between the fabric panels. A truck was idling outside his house. He squinted at the driver. Is that the crooked man?

  Before the tiger incident, he, Oliver, and Adélaïde had visited a dilapidated expedition supply shop called Strait of Magellan. The crooked man was the nasty owner of the shop—a man who’d made lots of money betting that Archer’s grandparents were dead.

  “What’s he doing outside my house?” Archer mumbled, and tilted his head to read the insignia on the side of the truck. “The Society . . . Barrow’s Bay . . . Rosewood.”

  Was that the Society? The one his grandfather was once president of?

  Archer opened the curtain wide, hoping to get a better look, but the truck squealed off down Willow Street.

  That was the first stranger to lurk outside Helmsley House, but it wasn’t the last. No more than an hour later, reporters began incessantly knocking on the front door. It was like the constant drip of a leaky faucet.

  “Only a moment of their time!” a reporter pleaded. “A glimpse of the insanity within—”

  Mrs. Helmsley slammed the door in his face. That was the sixth knock of the morning.

  “Do you have any idea where our trunks are, Archer?” Grandpa Helmsley asked, straining to see behind a couch in the sitting room. “A friend said he’d brought them home.”

  “I used one when I went to Raven Wood,” Archer answered. “The rest are down in the cellar. In a hole.”

  “In a hole! Who would put our—”