by Sean Cullen
So, my momma had no place to teach. That meant we had to make do on just the money my daddy could make. Daddy knew he needed to find a way to make more money so’s we could live a good life. He hit upon an idea. He’d breed tapirs.
He mortgaged our little house and bought a little farm to breed these animals. Now tapirs is a strange little animal that comes from South America.31 My daddy thought they was cute and I suppose they was. They had little hoofs like a mini-aycher horse but they’s got a silly long nose that they dig in the ground for roots and things. They’s an endangered species from the jungle and their only natural predator is the jaguar.
My daddy thought they’d be worth a load o’ money on account o’ them bein’ so rare. He took every last cent we had and bought four breedin’ pairs. He flooded most of our farmland so they could frolic around in the swampy ground, which were their natural habitat.
The one problem with the plan my daddy had was that he had no idea who we was gonna sell the tapirs to. They just kept breedin’ and breedin’, growin’ and growin’ until there was hundreds of the gosh darn things. We couldn’t afford to feed the blamed things any more. Without jaguars to keep the numbers down they were reproducin’ like mad. It was only a matter of time before somethin’ bad happened.
One day, there was a thunderstorm and the lightnin’ was blastin’ somethin’ awful. We were huddled in the kitchen lookin’ out at the storm. I remember it real clear. The sky just seemed to turn all purple with clouds and then it happened: a tornado come to Cross Plains. My daddy said that tornados is a long finger of the devil stirrin’ and scrapin’ at God’s creation. The funnel walked through the farm suckin’ up anything in its path and flingin’ it hither and yon. And as it moved across our farm, headin’ straight for our little house, it picked up hundreds of the poor little tapirs.
My momma told us all to go down into the storm cellar. She went to get some candles in the kitchen drawer but she never made it. The papers called it the strangest fatality on record. Hundreds of tapirs rained down, squealin’ like demons, crashin’ through the windows and ceiling. She never even saw it comin’ and I don’t think she felt any pain.32
O’ course my father blamed hisself for the tragedy. He spent most of his days drinkin’ beer and cursin’ tapirs. He was kind to me though. The bank repossessed the farm and we was forced to live with my dad’s sister, my Aunt Jean. She were mean. It weren’t very imaginative but I called her Mean Jean. Mainly ’cause it rhymed. Worse than that … she lived in a trailer. A brown one, too. Brown as a cow pat.
Aunt Jean weren’t too fond of me. Said I was too boyish a girl by half. Tried to make me wear dresses but I tore ’em up. They smelled funny anyway. She made me wear clothes she got from her work. She worked in the local funeral parlour and she got to keep all the clothes the dead people were wearin’ when they come in. Mostly they was old ladies’ clothes and they didn’t fit worth a darn. All the other kids at the school would laugh at me and I was forced to make ’em stop with my fists. I got pretty good, I reckon.
I tried to tell my daddy how mean Aunt Jean were but it was like he weren’t really there any more. My father tried his best to get work where he could, sweepin’ out barrooms and washin’ the toilets and such. I could tell he was real sad about Momma.
Money was very short and things were gettin’ very dire when my father come to me one day to tell me he had the offer of a job. I’d just come home from school and I’d had a fight. My lip was bleedin’ and I had a black eye but I gave better ’n I got, truth be told. My daddy sat me down at the kitchen table to tell me he’d been accepted to work on an oil rig in the Caspian Sea. That’s somewheres in Russia. The money was good but he’d be gone fer a while. He’d send money home and when he had a place he’d send fer me, but until that time Aunt Jean would be takin’ care o’ me. I cried all night, I don’t mind admittin’ that. He left the next day. He told me to be good and work on my slider.
I did my best to get along with Aunt Jean, but she were an ornery cuss of a woman. I was certain she was takin’ all the money my daddy sent home and keepin’ it fer herself but she swore she never got a cent from my “good fer nuthin” daddy. She never let me get the mail from the mailbox at the end of the lane so I couldn’t be shore if she was lyin’ or not.
To make a long story short, a letter came one day with bad news. It were from the oil company my daddy got hired on with. The letter said he’d been lost in a storm, swept off the rig in the darkest part o’ the night. There was nothing left of him. Just like that, I were all alone in the world. All I have to remember him is a picture of me and my momma and him, smilin’ on the back porch in the sunshine. And his baseball mitt. I keep ’em under my bunk.
As soon as Mean Jean found out I was orphaned, she couldn’t get me outta her life quick enough. The very next day she called a number and the ODA come and carted me off. I ended up here. And that’s just about the whole sorry tale.
Chapter 7
Mimi finished her story as the sun finally plunged behind the rim of the tundra. It seemed that the sun itself had decided that the story was too sad to bear and hid its face behind the earth.
“How long have you been here?” Hamish X asked. “Seven long years,” Mimi said.
“Have you tried to escape?”
“Escape to where? There ain’t nowhere to go. The nearest town is nine hunnert kilometres away over barren wastes. If the cold don’t get ya, the giant polar bears will. Or the wolves.33 I imagine some orphan meat would make a fine change from the seal they’re used to.”
Hamish was silent as he thought for a moment. “What about a boat? The harbour?”
“Ya ain’t gonna have any joy there. There’s savage dogs and the guard at the dock is the meanest of ’em all. Got a face that looks like somebody dropped a forklift truck on it. We call ’im—”
“Forkliftface?”
“How’d ya guess? Anyhoo, he carries the key in his pocket all the time.” Mimi shook her shaggy head. “Might as well resign yerself to a long stay in Windcity Orphanage makin’ cheese fer Viggo. I only hope I can hold out two more years till I turn fourteen. Then I hope I can go back to Cross Plains and whup old Mean Jean.” Mimi smiled fiercely at that thought, her features barely visible in the fading light.
“What if you can’t stick it out that long?”
“Oh, I will. There ain’t no other choice. Some kids crack and they get taken away by the grey agents, them ODA folks. They’s never heard of agin. I don’t know what happens to ’em but I bet they just dump ’em on the street somewheres to fend fer themselves. I’ll make it two more years. I shore will.”
They hung in silence for a moment, thinking about years and how long they could be. “What about you?” Mimi asked suddenly. “You gotta tell your story now. Only fair.”
“I’d really like to tell you my story but …”
“But nothin’,” Mimi said. “You gotta tell!”
“It’s not that I don’t want to. I wish I had a story to tell,” Hamish X said. “I don’t know where I come from or where I’ve been. I know one thing though … I have to find Mother. I have to find her. I know she’s out there waiting for me.”
“Yeah, ya said that before.” Mimi shook her head. “Yer like a broken record.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to …”
He faltered when he saw a light down below him. In the darkness it bobbed along the flat roof, coming closer to where the lines holding the kites were moored. As the source of the light approached Hamish and Mimi could make out Parveen’s face in the glow cast by a lamp strapped to his head. He was carrying a bucket. When he reached the mooring lines he looked up at Mimi and Hamish, his round glasses glinting in the glare of his headlamp.
“Hello,” he waved. “My name is Parveen.”
“I’m Hamish X,” Hamish X answered with a wave.
“Right. So you say.” Parveen raised a critical eyebrow. Then he raised his hand to show a steaming bucket. “I have brought
you some dinner.”
“How did ya manage to get up here?” Mimi asked.
“Mrs. Francis was worried, so she sneaked out some food for you.” Parveen set the bucket down. And pulled two bowls out of his baggy overalls pocket. Two spoons followed the bowls. “The guards were asleep, so getting up here was no problem. Mrs. Francis used her keycard on the locks. She says to tell you she’s sorry for reporting you to Master Viggo, but she was most concerned that you might injure each other.”
“I appreciate your effort Parveen, and the kindness of Mrs. Francis,” said Hamish, tugging at his tether, “but we’re a bit tied up.”
“Leave it to me,” Parveen called. He set the bowls down and rummaged in his pockets again. From several pockets, small and large, he produced little bits of metal, hooks, and pieces of wood.
“What’s he doing?” Hamish asked Mimi.
“He does this sorta thing all the time,” she answered. “He’s good with his hands.”
A few minutes later, Parveen stood up. In each hand he held a strange object: a boxlike frame of sticks with a hook sticking out of the top. Each one had a little sail made out of knotted handkerchiefs. He took the bowls and laid each one into a frame where it fit snugly. That done, he tipped the bucket of steaming porridge, filling first one bowl, then the other. He stuck a spoon into each bowl, lifted them by the hooks, and placed the hooks over the tethers holding Mimi and Hamish in place.
Immediately, the handkerchief billowed out like a sail in the wind and the frame carrying the bowl shot up the tether into Mimi’s and Hamish X’s waiting hands.
“Would you look at that,” Hamish X exclaimed.
“Like I told ya,” Mimi said. “He’s good with his hands.”
“Thanks!” she called and hungrily tucked into the porridge.
“Thanks,” Hamish called.
Parveen pushed his glasses up on his nose with his index finger and looked at Hamish X. Suddenly, he asked, “How old are you?”
Hamish X shrugged, almost spinning out of control. “I … don’t really know.”
Parveen stared at Hamish X for a little longer. At last, he picked up the bucket and headed for the door.
“Wait,” shouted Mimi. “What should we do with the bowls when we’re done?”
Parveen flapped his hand dismissively. “Just let go of them and the wind will do the rest.” Then he disappeared through the doorway.
Hamish and Mimi ate their porridge as they dangled in the howling wind, warmer and happier than they’d expected to be. When the porridge was gone, they tossed the bowls with their ingenious frames into the wind. The wind whisked the bowls up and out of sight in an instant.
“Clever,” said Hamish.
“Too right,” said Mimi.
Hamish watched the bowls disappear into the darkness. “I wonder …” he mused.
“Wonder what?” Mimi demanded.
“Oh, nothing,” he smiled at her.
“It’s your turn,” Mimi said.
“My turn?” Hamish was confused.
“What’s your story?”
Hamish X shook his head. “Aw, you don’t wanna hear about me. It isn’t that interesting.”
“Are you kiddin’ me? You’ve been everywhere! Done everythin’!”
“I guess. It doesn’t seem so big a deal to me. I’ll tell you one thing for sure, though.”
“What’s that?”
“There isn’t an orphanage that can hold me. I always escape.”
“Always?”
“Always.”
The door to the roof opened, interrupting their conversation. Light from electric lanterns played across them. Pianoface and Tubaface shambled to the edge of the roof. They looked as if they’d just woken up.
“Cold enough fer ya?” Pianoface yawned and they both laughed.
“It’s exactly cold enough, thanks,” Hamish X called.
“You’re a weirdo,” Pianoface answered.
“A weirdo with big boots,” Tubaface chimed in. They grabbed a line each and started hauling the danglers in.
Prodded by the guards, they staggered down the steps back towards the dormitory. Hamish and Mimi were cold and miserable, but at least they hadn’t missed their dinner. Mimi was looking forward to flopping onto her cot and sleeping. She looked at her companion. He had been awake and alert up on the roof but now he seemed exhausted, his eyes half-closed under heavy lids. He was having trouble keeping up with Mimi and kept lagging behind. Every few steps he staggered and the guard had to haul him to his feet again.
They came to the door that led to the cafeteria and dormitory: the secure section of the complex that housed the children. The door was made of dull grey metal, thick and heavy. Pianoface pushed it open easily.
“Get in!” Pianoface barked. With one meaty hand, he shoved Mimi so hard that she sprawled on her face on the cafeteria’s linoleum floor.
Hamish X didn’t look good. He swayed on his feet. His mouth hung open, loose and slack. His eyes were barely open.
“You, too!” The guard reached for Hamish X.
Suddenly, Hamish X vomited a gout of porridge all over Pianoface’s front and slumped against Tubaface, clutching at his uniform.
“Aaaaggh,” Pianoface squawked. “He’s puked on me.”
“Get off me!” shouted Tubaface. He pushed Hamish so that he fell headlong into the cafeteria, lifeless and limp. Then he hauled out his Ticklestick and advanced on Hamish X. Mimi leapt to her feet. Fists clenched, she stepped into the guard’s path, standing over Hamish’s prone body.
“Leave him alone,” she snarled.
“Gad!” Pianoface interjected, holding his vomit-soaked shirt away from his skin in disgust. “Let’s just get back to barracks so I can get cleaned up.”
Tubaface faltered. He held Mimi’s gaze a moment longer, then tucked the weapon back into his belt. To tell the truth, he was glad of an excuse to avoid a tussle with the terrifying girl in front of him.
“Let’s get outta here. There’s a poker game tonight.”
“Let’s go then.” They stepped back through the door and pulled it closed.
“Do you think he has rabies or something?” Mimi heard as the door slammed.
Mimi squatted down beside Hamish X lying motionless on the floor. She gently turned him over. His eyes were closed. She laid a hand on his forehead, just as she remembered her mother doing when she was sick in her bed in Cross Plains.
“Are they gone?” Hamish X asked.
Mimi jerked her hand back. Hamish X opened one eye.
“Are they gone?” he asked again.
“Yeah.” Mimi watched in astonishment as the boy vaulted nimbly to his feet, his illness seemingly vanished as suddenly as it had come.
“You were fakin’?” She was awestruck.
“Of course,” he laughed. “Puking on command can come in handy. Fakirs34 do it in Nepalese markets. I remember I saw it once.”
“You can puke on command?” Mimi asked.
Hamish nodded. “It’s not that difficult. I can teach you how if you like.”
“But …” Mimi grabbed Hamish X’s arm. “Why?”
“I needed a distraction,” he said, “so I could grab this.”
As if by magic, a plastic security keycard appeared in his hand. Mimi stared in disbelief. “That card opens all the doors. We can escape!” She clapped her hands in delight. “We’re as good as out of here.” Her delight turned to dismay. “They’ll miss the card though. Pianoface will report it lost and they’ll change the locks.”
Hamish X shook his head. “You underestimate the stupidity of the guards and their fear of Viggo. Would you like to report to your boss that you’ve lost the key to the prison? These men are big, strong, and ugly too, but they’re cowards. I think we can assume they won’t report the missing card.” He tucked it into the top of his right boot.
“This way.” Mimi jerked her head towards the far end of the cafeteria. In one wall a swinging metal door led to the factory flo
or where the sounds of the night shift drifted through. Mimi led Hamish X to another door on the opposite wall that led to the dormitory.
They walked through the quiet common room, a tiny, cramped space with some rickety chairs and a wobbly table, and into the sleeping quarters. Rows of dark shadows marked the cots holding the sleeping day-shift children. They passed Parveen snoring softly in his narrow bed, his glasses still on, a pencil behind his ear. A little mound of news magazines rose and fell on his chest in time with his breathing. Hamish X watched as Mimi stopped and gently lifted the glasses off, folding them and tucking them under Parveen’s pillow. The little boy stirred and mumbled then went back to sleep.
“G’night, Hamish X.” Mimi lay down on the next cot. Hamish X dropped down onto his stiff mattress, boots and all. He was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.
Piratical Interlude
The Roquefort Castle stood in a picturesque valley in the heart of the French Alps. For centuries, the castle was the centre of production for one of the world’s most treasured cheeses: Roquefort. The pale white cheese, marbled with veins of mould found only in the caves that dotted the mountainsides, had long been a source of wealth for the Countess de Roquefort and her family. The castle represented the living history of the family and its fortunes. And now the castle was in flames.
The Comptesse35 de Roquefort, her expensive nightgown from a fashion atelier in Milan spattered with mud and soot, knelt in the rain watching her home burn brightly despite the cold drizzle falling from the night sky. All the work she and her family had accomplished gone in one night. She covered her face with her hands and wept.
All around, pirates roared with laughter at her misery.
“Quiet!” The command brought instant silence.
“Are you animals?” growled a menacing voice. “That’s no way to treat a lady.”
“Sorry,” some in the group muttered sheepishly. “Got carried away.”