Nicholas Gannon - The Doldrums and the Helmsley Curse

“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 tree 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.