The Doldrums and the Helmsley Curse

by Nicholas Gannon

  Mrs. Helmsley stormed into the room and shrieked. Two reporters had managed to climb the facade and were taking pictures through the windows. She nearly yanked the curtain from the rod as she wrenched it shut.

  “It’s a deluge!” she cried, eyeing Archer’s grandparents as she marched off. “We’re all going to drown unless you speak to someone!”

  Archer couldn’t believe it, but for what had to be the first time in his life, he actually agreed with his mother. His grandparents still hadn’t explained the iceberg to him. And while he wasn’t sure what they’d told his parents, it clearly wasn’t enough to satisfy.

  “Why won’t you say something?” he asked.

  “Telling the truth is not always easy,” Grandma Helmsley replied. “Telling the truth can make you sound unhinged.”

  “And that’s exactly what he wants,” Grandpa Helmsley muttered, peeking through the curtain at the horde of reporters gathered outside. “I’ll bet he’s having a good laugh right now.”

  Mrs. Helmsley flew by clutching a sign.

  DO NOT DISTURB

  NO REPORTERS

  NO INTERVIEWS

  NO ANYONE

  Archer heard the reporters booing his mother as she furiously nailed it to the front door.

  “Follow me,” he said to his grandparents, leading them into the cellar to retrieve their trunks.

  ♦ ANOTHER PIECE OF THE IMPOSSIBLE ♦

  “Your grandfather’s shirts go in the top drawer, dear.”

  Archer tucked them inside as his grandfather lifted a wooden crate from a trunk. Archer remembered that crate. Oliver had found it the day Adélaïde discovered that the trunks were hidden in the cellar hole. It was filled with corked jars of colorful powders and liquids.

  “What are those?” he asked, dragging an empty trunk to the closet and returning to his grandfather.

  “Something we should have thrown overboard on our way to Antarctica,” Grandma Helmsley said, glaring at the crate.

  Grandpa Helmsley gave Archer an odd sort of smile. “I suppose you could say they were something of a parting gift. I’m surprised they’re still here. Each of these bottles does something different.” He set the crate on the floor and removed a jar that was filled with dark blue powder and pink specks.

  “Take that one, for example,” he continued, handing it to Archer. “That’s Doxical Powder. One pinch of that, and you’ll find yourself behaving the opposite of how you normally would. Temporarily, at least.”

  Archer brought the jar close to his eyes. “But that would be like magic.”

  “It’s not magic, but it is powerful. Did you know there’s a berry that grows in tropical West Africa called the miracle berry? When you eat it, the juices coat your tongue and, for a time, make sweet things taste sour.”

  Archer had never heard of such a thing.

  “A botanist at the Society, a man named Wigstan Spinler—he told me Doxical Powder works from a similar principle, but with your brain’s receptors instead of your tongue’s taste buds.”

  Archer moved the jar from his face.

  “It’s strong, yes. But harmless.”

  “Harmless?” Grandma Helmsley questioned. “Honestly, Ralph, after everything that . . . What I mean is, in the wrong hands, Archer, that jar could do a great deal of harm.”

  Archer gently shook it and watched the fine powder shift. Could such a small thing really do so much?

  “It’s made from plants,” his grandfather explained. “It should say on the back which ones.”

  “Slate leaf, yellow hotus, and pugwort.” Archer lowered the jar. “Pugwort?” Benjamin had a plant of the same name.

  “I believe pugwort gives it those pink specks,” Grandpa Helmsley said, and stuck out his hand. Reluctantly, Archer passed it back.

  “Curiosity is natural, Archer,” his grandmother said. “But those jars are not to be played with. I’m not sure they should even exist.”

  “And best not talk about them publicly, Archer,” his grandfather added. “Mr. Spinler’s research is something of a secret.”

  “My roommate at Raven Wood would’ve liked that,” Archer said, watching his grandfather set the crate next to a hedgehog high atop a wardrobe. “He loved plants and told me I would, too, if I knew what they could do.”

  “Is that so?” Grandma Helmsley said, digging in her trunk. “What was his name?”

  “Benjamin Birthwhistle.”

  Grandma Helmsley stood straight up. Her arms were filled with sweaters, but from her expression, you’d think they were explosives. “Did you say Birthwhistle, Archer?”

  Archer nodded. His grandfather’s expression was the same. “Do you know Benjamin?”

  “Mostly we know his father,” Grandpa Helmsley explained, staring across the room at Grandma Helmsley. “A man named Herbert Birthwhistle. Or I suppose it’s President Birthwhistle now. He took over at the Society after we vanished.”

  Archer shook his head. That couldn’t be right. “Benjamin’s father is a travel guide.”

  “A travel guide?” Grandpa Helmsley’s laugh was filled with something bitter. “That’s what he told you, is it? Well, I suppose at a certain point that was almost true. But he’s one travel guide we’ll never use again.”

  Archer was becoming uneasy. He had a vague idea where this was going. His grandfather stood before him and became very serious.

  “You want to know more about the iceberg, Archer, and it’s only right that you should. Above all things, a true explorer desires to make the unknown known.”

  “Ralph.”

  “The first thing you need to know is that when I was president of the Society, I made decisions that Mr. Birthwhistle disagreed with. But there was one decision in particular that Mr. Birthwhistle hated me for—a decision he wanted to reverse. And sometimes, when you want something bad enough, you’re willing to do something terrible to get it.”

  Archer’s mouth fell open.

  “Now that’s quite enough of that,” Grandma Helmsley said, dropping her sweaters into her trunk. “Your grandfather and I have a few things we need to discuss.” She hurried Archer to the door and sent him out.

  “We agreed he’s not to be involved in any of this!”

  “I’m not involving him! I only want him to know the truth!”

  Archer pulled back from the closed door. Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Fearing his mother might ask him to dust more curtains, he hurried to his bedroom, his mind racing. Benjamin’s father is the president of the Society? He did something terrible? Some thoughts are better left unspoken, so Archer said nothing as he passed the polar bear in the alcove.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” the polar bear whispered. “And if you consider it more, you might find it’s not as absurd as you think.”

  Archer shut his bedroom door. It can’t be true. He went to his desk, grabbed the newspaper clippings, and there it was, right under his nose.

  “We’re still gathering information,” President Birthwhistle said. “But I can say without hesitation that the iceberg was no accident.”

  The room began to spin. Archer took a breath. When he released it, out came the thought he didn’t want to say.

  “Did Benjamin’s father try to kill my grandparents?”

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  ♦ THE CENTER OF A MAZE ♦

  On Christmas morning, joyful children all across Rosewood sat around trees, tearing into presents and gulping down more chocolate than their stomachs knew what to do with. In Helmsley House, Archer sat on his bed, encircled with newspaper clippings, tearing through his thoughts.

  Did Benjamin know who Archer was? He had to. But did Benjamin know what his father had done? That had to be why Benjamin had said Archer would hate him. Didn’t it?

  “Merry Christmas, Archer! Come downstairs!”

  Archer rolled off his bed and followed his father’s voice.

  It wasn’t a completely cheerless Christmas morning. The Helmsleys gathered around the tr
ee decked with metal ships and planes, exchanging and unwrapping gifts. Archer received his usual yearly planner from his parents, which he faked interest in and kindly thanked them for. Mrs. Helmsley received a tremendously colorful yak-hair sweater from Archer’s grandparents, which she quickly averted her eyes from, perhaps fearing she might go blind. Mr. Helmsley received a paperweight, bearing a red crest: ORDER OF ORION. “It’s never too late,” Grandpa Helmsley said with a wink. Archer’s gift from his grandparents was by far the greatest Christmas present he’d ever opened—a beautiful pair of binoculars, polished brass with leather grips.

  “Finest they make,” Grandpa Helmsley said, placing them around Archer’s neck. “And you’ll need a fine pair when you become a Green—”

  Mrs. Helmsley coughed violently into her new sweater. Grandma Helmsley rushed her a cup of tea. By the time she recovered, Grandpa Helmsley had lost his train of thought.

  After a sumptuous breakfast, Archer’s grandparents went upstairs, Mr. Helmsley prodded a dwindling fire, and Archer helped his mother with the dishes. Aside from her coughing fit, she was in good spirits. Not a single person had knocked on the front door. Until someone did. Archer wasn’t sure if his mother was startled and dropped the plate or if she was furious and threw it. The dish shattered regardless, and Archer narrowly dodged a ceramic shard. His mother tore down the hall, shouting before she’d even gotten the door open.

  “It’s Christmas morning! Don’t you have a fam—”

  Mrs. Helmsley hushed. It was no reporter. It was a tall man in a greasy jumpsuit with an eye patch covering one of his eyes. The Eye Patch! Or at least, that’s what Archer called him. He’d met the Eye Patch twice before, but all he knew was that the Eye Patch was the captain of a ship, a friend of his grandparents’, and tremendously kind.

  “Merry Christmas, Helena!” the Eye Patch cheered. “Hope I’m not disturbing you. I saw the sign. Was going to leave. But I’m here on urgent Society business. I was wondering if I might . . . Helena? You look a bit queasy. Don’t you remember me? It was a long time ago, but I thought the grease might . . .”

  Mrs. Helmsley’s eyes narrowed and her forehead went splotchy. It was almost like she was trying to dig up a memory she’d killed off and buried deep in her mind.

  “Cornelius?” she finally said, her voice quivering.

  The Eye Patch smiled widely. Mrs. Helmsley didn’t. He seemed to know why.

  “I’ll admit it wasn’t the best way to introduce myself,” he said, his smile waning. “Ralph and Rachel asked me to stay in the waiting room. And I did. But there was a pigeon, you see. It wandered into the viewing room—perched itself on his bassinet. Filthy creatures, pigeons.” Cornelius paused and looked his greasy self over. “Right. But I was only trying to shoo it away. That’s how I got the grease on his face. I tried to rub it off and, well, things sort of spiraled out of control. To be fair, you did sic those nurses on me. They nearly ran me out of Rosewood.”

  Mrs. Helmsley had no response. Cornelius fished in his pockets and revealed a letter that would have been very pretty were it not spotted with grease. He handed it to Archer’s mother, who held it at arm’s length.

  “For Ralph and Rachel,” Cornelius explained, wiping his hands on his chest. “Sorry about the grease. Nature of the job.”

  Mrs. Helmsley glanced from the letter to Cornelius and back again. Archer wished she would say something. Cornelius was chewing his lip, his one eye looking left and right.

  “I’ll just be going now,” he said, backing down the steps and nearly slipping on a patch of ice. “Sorry to disturb you. Again. And . . . Merry Christmas?”

  Mrs. Helmsley slammed the door. “He will not become a regular visitor.”

  “Was that story about me?” Archer asked as he stepped to her side.

  His mother nodded gravely. “One minute you were sleeping peacefully in your bassinet. The next you were in the arms of a greasy one-eyed man. I screamed so loud the nurses thought I’d been stabbed.”

  Archer suppressed his smile and stuck out his hand. “I’ll give them the letter.”

  Mrs. Helmsley was all too pleased to get rid of it. “Wash up after you do.” She sniffed her hand. “It might only be grease, but it’s where that grease came from that disturbs me.”

  ♦ URGENT BUSINESS ♦

  Archer wanted to read the letter on his way up the stairs, but he presented it to his grandparents and waited patiently as they opened and read it. Well, not that patiently. While he was trying to see through the back of the letter, he realized something was scribbled there.

  Please come. The order wants to help.

  Birthwhistle will not be there.

  You need to tell your side before he arrives.

  —Cornelius

  “There’s something written on the back,” Archer said.

  His grandmother flipped the letter, and he finally saw the front.

  RONALD H. SUPLARD

  HEAD INQUIRER

  SOCIETY CODES AND CONDUCT

  DEPARTMENT OF INQUIRY

  RALPH AND RACHEL HELMSLEY,

  IT HAS BEEN BROUGHT TO MY ATTENTION THAT YOU’VE BEEN IN ROSEWOOD FOR TWO DAYS, BUT HAVE YET COME TO THE SOCIETY. I ASK THAT YOU NOT DELAY ANY FURTHER. THERE WILL BE A BANQUET IN THE GRAND HALL THIS EVENING FOR MEMBERS WHO ARE IN ROSEWOOD OVER THE HOLIDAYS. CONSIDER THIS A PERSONAL INVITATION AND STRONG SUGGESTION THAT YOU ATTEND.

  REGARDS,

  RONALD SUPLARD

  Grandma Helmsley inspected both sides of the letter as though she was looking for a clue. “Do we trust Suplard?” she asked his grandfather.

  “We have no reason not to.”

  “Then we’ll go. I wish you could come, too, Archer, but there are many—”

  “Of course he’s coming,” Grandpa Helmsley interrupted. “It’s a banquet. He can bring his friends and see the Grand Hall while we attend to business.”

  Grandma Helmsley frowned, but she didn’t argue.

  His grandfather told him to invite his friends and then left to speak to his father. Archer hurried to his room but stopped outside the door. He couldn’t imagine going to the Society without Oliver and Adélaïde. But he hadn’t spoken to either of them since the Glubs’ party. What if they were angry with him? They had every right to be. He slunk into his bedroom, not sure he wanted to face them. But there they were. Adélaïde froze, her hands poised to leave a brightly wrapped gift on his desk.

  “Oh, uh, merry Christmas,” she said. “We thought you were downstairs. We were just going to leave this.”

  “We still can,” Oliver added. “If you’d prefer.”

  “Please don’t,” Archer said, shutting the door. “I’m sorry. For the other night. I didn’t mean to ruin the party. I was—”

  “We know you were upset,” Adélaïde said, trying to give him the gift.

  Archer was reluctant to take it. “I forgot to get you something.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Oliver said as Adélaïde forced the present into Archer’s hands. “My father was right. We’ve been loafing ever since you left. Go on. Open it.”

  Archer sat on his bed and unwrapped the gift. There were two things inside. The first was a half-empty box of DuttonLick’s chocolate caramel turtles.

  “I might have eaten a few,” Oliver said, blushing. “But I’ll make you more. I wanted to tell you the other night—Mr. DuttonLick is having a huge party at the sweetshop, and he asked me to be his assistant. He’s going to teach me how to make chocolate.”

  Oliver had gone from blushing to beaming. He’d even puffed out his chest a little. DuttonLick’s sweetshop was Oliver’s favorite store in Rosewood. And aside from Mr. DuttonLick himself, Oliver knew it better than anyone.

  “You’ll be a great assistant,” Archer said, pouring the chocolates into his hand and offering his friends some.

  Beneath the half-empty chocolate box was a brand-new leather-bound pocket journal.

  “I thought you could use a new one,” Adélaïde explained, l
icking a bit of caramel from her finger. “I hope you like it. It’s from Bray and Ink on Howling Bloom Street. And look.” She leaned in and lifted the cover. “This one even has a pen holder.”

  Many things in this world can rack you with guilt, but treating your good friends poorly and having those same friends acting as though it never happened at all takes the cake.

  “It’s perfect,” Archer managed. “Thank you.”

  Adélaïde smiled and sat beside him, glancing over the newspaper articles sprawled across his bed.

  “We heard your grandparents are home,” Oliver said hesitantly. “Have they said anything about the iceberg?”

  “Not much,” Archer sighed. “But it wasn’t a hoax. My grandparents aren’t dangerous. Mr. Birthwhistle is. He’s the Society president, and I think I know what’s really going on.” He paused before adding, “I think Mr. Birthwhistle tried to kill my grandparents.”

  That was not quite in keeping with the spirit of Christmas morning. Oliver and Adélaïde needed a moment to digest it.

  “Why do you think that?” Adélaïde finally asked.

  “My grandfather basically said it.” Archer searched the newspaper clippings for the ICEBERG HOAX! article. “Think about it,” he continued, handing it to Adélaïde. “Mr. Birthwhistle talked to the newspapers first. He got everyone to believe my grandparents wanted to vanish—that they went crazy. I’m sure he’s doing the same thing at the Society. And now, if my grandparents tell the truth, if they say Mr. Birthwhistle tried to kill them, it will only reinforce the claim that they’re insane. Who’s going to believe them?”

  “Fait accompli,” Adélaïde mumbled, lowering the article.

  “Stop using your fancy French words,” Oliver insisted. “What does that even mean?”

  “It means if Archer’s right, Mr. Birthwhistle has trapped his grandparents.” She turned to Archer, frowning. “But why? Why would he want to kill your grandparents?”

  “My grandfather said there was a disagreement about something.”

  Oliver wrinkled his forehead. “Adélaïde and I have disagreements all the time, but it’s not like we would ever . . .” He paused. Adélaïde was grinning at him in an odd way. “Well, maybe you would leave me on an iceberg. But I wouldn’t do that to you.”