An Act of Hodd

by Nic Saint

  He would never admit this to a living soul, of course, and probably not even to a dead one either, for officially law and order was writ large on his contract and law and order was exactly what reigned supreme these days.

  Until he was walking down Lawford Street and saw something out of the ordinary. It was a spaceship, or at least that’s what it looked like. It was hovering behind a fenced-off area where a new office building was going to be erected once the contractor got his act together and started erecting.

  So he approached the fence with something akin to exhilaration in his gentle soul, and peered at the spaceship with interest. Now here was something extraordinary, and for a moment he wondered whether it was even permitted to park a spaceship on a construction site. Weren’t there any rules and regulations covering this contingency? He would have to check the traffic code.

  The spaceship was hovering a few feet above the ground, its lights flashing brightly, as if beckoning ET to come home already, and when he looked closer, sticking his face between two pickets, his big ears flapping eagerly and his eyes practically popping from their parent sockets, he noticed a spaceman standing in front of the ship, studying a map of some kind.

  Immediately his police instincts kicked into gear. One of the most frequent demands on his time was from tourists asking for directions to the beach, which he was always happy to give them. And now here was this spaceman looking for directions. So he raised his hand, stepped behind the fence, and yelled out, “Hullo there! Oh, hey, hullo there, sir!”

  The man had long blond hair, and the kind of face befitting a royal ruler, or at least the kind of face he associated with a royal ruler as seen in Peter Jackson’s The Lord of the Rings, one of his favorite trilogies of all times and one he owned on DVD, Blu-Ray and digital format. The director’s cut, of course.

  He walked up to the man with an officious look on his face, and cleared his throat noisily as he did so. “Ahem, hullo, sir!” he cried. “Can I help you?”

  The spaceman slowly looked up from his perusal of the Happy Bays tourist guide and eyed Virgil so malevolently, the policeman was momentarily taken aback, his own benevolence suffering a crushing blow. Nevertheless, he tried again, “Are you lost, sir? Need directions for your, um… your vehicle?”

  When the man simply kept staring at him, a foul look on his handsome face, his icy blue eyes displaying the kind of murderous intent one only expects from the bad guy in a horror movie, his Adam’s apple bobbed violently, and he tugged at his collar, which suddenly seemed awfully tight.

  Unlike Jeff Bridges in Starman, who was basically an all-around great guy, and gave Karen Allen the time of her life, this one didn’t seem all that nice, and it suddenly occurred to Virgil he might have landed here with some nefarious goal in mind. Like destroying Happy Bays. Or even the planet.

  Automatically, his hand moved to his gun belt. If this guy had funny business in mind, he’d show him what they did with nasty aliens down here.

  And then the spaceman spoke. “My name is Severin Lobb. I’m the guardian of the House of Hodd, the ruling house of Allard, and I’m on a mission to retrieve the ring belonging to Tabitha Hodd, Princess of Allard.”

  “Never heard of it, I’m afraid,” said Virgil, well pleased that the alien at the very least spoke English. “This is Happy Bays. H.A.P.P.Y. B.A.Y.S.”

  “If your people don’t hand over the ring, I will destroy your realm.”

  “Destroy our realm, huh? Now, sir, I really don’t think that’s wise. I mean, all things considered, this is a very nice realm, as realms go. Okay, it may have its issues but it’s our realm and we kinda like it the way it is.”

  “I’m going to destroy your realm as punishment for your collusion with Mortdecai, butcher of Allard, my mortal enemy and overall dastardly fiend.”

  Virgil shook his head. “Nope. Afraid I don’t know the guy. Well, I saw the Johnny Depp movie, of course, but that’s as far as my knowledge of Mortdecais goes.”

  “Mortdecai is sucking the energy from Allard and funneling it into the construction of his own realm—his personal dominion built on Allard’s ruin.”

  “Is that a fact?” murmured Virgil, starting to feel this conversation was awfully one-sided.

  “Do you know Felicity Bell?!” the man suddenly thundered.

  “Oh, sure, sure,” said Virgil, a smile appearing on his amiable map. He rocked back on his heels, hooking his thumbs in his waistband as he did. “Very nice young lady and a lifelong friend of mine. In fact we first met in kindergarten. Me, Fee and her friend Alice, of course.”

  “Is she your lover?!”

  Virgil’s eyebrows shot up into his fringe and his ears waggled, as they did when he experienced a state of extreme perturbation. “Who, Fee? Oh, no. Most assuredly not, sir!” He felt these kinds of questions extended beyond the realm of a first meeting, and was about to tick the other off when Severin Cobb or Mobb or whatever his name simply continued in the same vein.

  “What about the other one? The golden-haired Lilliputian one?”

  Virgil held up a hand in censure. “Now be careful what you say about Alice, Mr. Bobb. Full disclosure? She’s a great friend of mine and—”

  “Is she your lover?!” the man in the golden onesie insisted vehemently.

  Virgil blinked in annoyance. “Well, no. No, she is not, but…”

  “But you want her to be! I can see it in your eyes, Happy Baysian!”

  He cleared his throat noisily. “That is none of your business, Mr. Blobb.”

  “Then suffer the wrath of Allard, as you are in cahoots with them!”

  “Huh?” asked Virgil, but before he could say more, the spaceman took off from the ground, now hovering a good five feet in the air so he had to crane his neck to see the guy. “Um, Mr. Snobb?” he asked. “I don’t like these slurs on my character, to be absolutely honest. If you’re implying that my feelings for Alice Whitehouse are deeper than mere friendship, I can assure you…”

  But suddenly there was a clash of thunder and a flash of lightning, and Virgil’s world turned into something from the movie Twister, when all around him the heavens darkened and heavy rain abruptly lashed him and turned him from a dry policeman into a very wet policeman in a matter of seconds.

  “Hey! What the heck?!” he cried, extremely dismayed. “This is a new uniform, Mr. Slobb!” he called out, and he knew for a fact that his mother would be displeased if he got it wet on the first day he wore it to work.

  Still living at home, Virgil was a henpecked son, if sons can be henpecked, and he honestly feared the wrath of his mother more than the wrath of Allard. All this and more he would gladly have explained to the spaceman who looked like Aragorn, if not suddenly the ground on which he stood opened up beneath his feet, and then he was dropping down at quite a high rate of speed, producing the kind of cry he hadn’t uttered since Fee had retaliated for his theft of her Twizzlers by digging her nails into his arm.

  When he finally landed with a hard drop on the floor, a few stories beneath where he’d originally set out from, he quickly ascertained that, quite miraculously, he hadn’t broken any bones.

  And then the thunderous voice of the Allard guy, now staring down at him from a great height, announced, “You will remain locked up in the Allard dungeons until your two lovers return to me the ring of the House of Hodd!”

  “Huh? What? What ring?” he asked a little feebly, for with the drop to a lower stratum his voice had jumped to a higher one. He cleared his throat, and then repeated, “What ring are you talking about, Mr. Gobb?”

  “Don’t pretend not to know, little man!” the voice boomed. And then the sky seemed to close up over his head, and to his surprise he was in some sort of dark, dank, dingy dungeon, with chains dangling from wet walls, and thick, iron bars in front of the only small window in the place. The floor, he saw, was littered with the carcasses of animals who’d expired a long time ago, by the looks of things, and he even saw what he suspected was the skeleton of a human p
ropped up in the corner, as if he’d simply died while taking a nap.

  “Yikes!” he cried out at his predicament. If he’d only shut up about wanting to bring some more excitement into his life! This was a lot more excitement than he’d bargained for. And then he wailed, “Let me out of here, Aragorn, you maniac! Let me out!”

  But the only response he received was the echo his own voice produced on the cavernous confines of his cell.

  Chapter 8

  Fee was ringing up a customer when her phone rang. She picked it up with one hand while receiving the money for two muffins and three chocolate croissants with the other and shoving it into the cash register, then handing the change to the elderly lady who looked like Queen Elizabeth and was dressed in the same fluorescent outfit favored by the sole ruler of Britain.

  “Bye-bye, Mrs. Harlot,” she called out, for the lady was a little hard of hearing. “Hey, honey,” she spoke into the phone, for it was her fiancé Rick.

  “Hey back atcha. Just wanted to hear your voice. I miss you, honey.”

  “And I miss you,” she said, wondering if she should tell him about the whole Allard thing. Then she decided against it. For some reason Rick had always been a little jealous of Reece, ever since the two men had moved in with their respective fiancées, and she didn’t feel like exacerbating the situation by telling Rick Reece had gone all out on this elaborate setup. “How much longer are you going to be in New York for?”

  Rick was staying with his brother-in-law Bomer Calypso while he finished the assignment he was working on for The New York Chronicle.

  “I just need a few more interviews and then I can wrap this up.”

  “So a few more days, huh?”

  “Something like that.”

  “What story are you working on?” she asked as she watched her mother approach from the kitchen with a tray of freshly baked chocolate croissants.

  “Well, I’m doing a story on my dad, actually. You remember he’s running for president, right?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “My editor figured it would be a good idea to do a write-up on him.”

  “Do you think that’s wise, honey?”

  There had long been a rift between father and son, and even now Rick seemed to feel that his father was some kind of crook. That he’d made his billions by twisting arms and busting skulls along the way to the top.

  When she pointed out that Rick might be a little biased, he protested vehemently. “Actually I like to think I’m the perfect person to write about Chazz Falcone. Nobody knows him like I do.”

  “Which is exactly my point. And what’s more, if you write the kind of article I think you’re going to write, the atmosphere at the next Thanksgiving dinner is going to be very frosty.”

  “I see what you mean,” he said, musingly, then added, “Well, what if I promise to write a glowing portrait? Will you be satisfied, then?”

  “You don’t have to go as far as that, honey. We all know Chazz is a bit of a rascal.”

  “He’s a crook is what he is. And I say that with great love and affection.”

  Yeah, right. “Deep down your father is a good man, you know that. And he loves both you and your sister very much.” She took the tray from her mother and started distributing the croissants on the counter. These chocolate ones were so popular Uncle Achilles was baking up a fresh batch twice a day.

  “The people of this great nation of ours have a right to know the truth about their next president,” Rick was now saying, “and I for one think it would be criminal not to give it to them.”

  “Yes, but my point is that you should leave the mudslinging to a different reporter, so as not to muddle up your personal life. Besides, Chazz doesn’t stand a chance of winning this election, so why muddy the waters now?”

  She could tell she’d given Rick food for thought. He was a conscientious reporter and had always believed in the kind of hard-hitting journalism that called a spade a spade and a crooked real estate developer a crooked real estate developer. Only now that Chazz and Rick had finally reconciled and they were one big happy family again, she felt he shouldn’t rock the boat.

  Especially with their wedding coming up. It wouldn’t do for the father of the groom not to be present because the groom has written a scathing exposé on his sordid past. It would kind of ruin the moment. She told Rick all this and more, and when finally she disconnected had the distinct impression he was still convinced he was right and she was wrong.

  So finally she picked up the phone again and called Rick’s editor Suggs Potter, and placed the matter before him. If Rick wasn’t going to let go, perhaps Suggs could simply appoint a different reporter in his stead.

  But Suggs proved just as obstinate as Rick was, and basically told her in no uncertain terms that no one messed with his prerogative as The New York Chronicle’s editor-in-chief to decide which one of his reporters should write which story, and most definitely not their girlfriends!

  After she hung up, she could see she’d made something of a faux-pas. Now Suggs would tell Rick she’d been trying to interfere, and there would be hell to pay.

  “Oh, God,” she groaned, rubbing her eyes with the palms of her hands.

  “Problems, honey?” her mother asked.

  She uttered an astonished cry when she took a good, long look at Mom’s fluorescent blue hair, even brighter and more shocking in this latest iteration.

  “Mom!” she cried. “What happened to your hair?!”

  Mom pushed at her blue do. “Do you like it? I think it’s rather neat.”

  “It’s blue!” she yelled. “It’s hideous.”

  “Now, now, darling. Don’t be a hair shamer. What was all that face rubbing for anyway? Are you feeling tired? You should go to bed earlier. It’s that new Jennifer Boiler book, isn’t it? I told you not to read that kind of trash.”

  “It’s not the book,” she said, “and it’s not trash,” and then she proceeded to get her mother up to date on all things Rick Hudson and Chazz Falcone.

  Mom smiled. “Don’t worry, honey. What you need to do is simply call a meeting. Invite both Rick and his dad over for a nice dinner and smooth things over. Put some good food into these men and you’ll see that all will be well. Once a man’s stomach is full, all thought of wrath leaves his mind.”

  She stared at her mother. “Do you think so?”

  “I know so! Once upon a long time ago your father and your uncle Achilles had gotten into an argument. I don’t even remember what the fight was about. Something silly, probably, as usual. So your aunt Bettina and I decided to organize a nice dinner. Before the night was through, they were laughing and hugging and crying like two long-lost pals!”

  “Amazing.”

  “Just make sure the food is excellent and the wine even better and you’ll see those cold hearts will thaw like butter. And before you know it they will be whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears. They’ll be best chums!”

  Fee could hardly imagine her future husband and his father whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears. Chazz had always disliked his son’s choice of career, feeling that reporters were the vermin of this earth, and Rick had always despised his father’s lack of scruples when amassing his massive fortune. She couldn’t imagine food and drink, no matter how great, would bridge that gap. She was willing to try, though. “Thanks, Mom. I’ll set it up.”

  “You do that,” Mom said, patting her daughter on the arm, then glanced into the tea room. “Wow, we’ve got another full house today, don’t we?”

  “We sure do,” said Felicity, well pleased.

  “Better than that cyber thing, huh?” said Mother with a glint in her eye.

  “The cyber thing is like a baby, Mom. It has to be nurtured and cherished so that one day it can blossom into a beautiful person.”

  “Well, you do that. I already raised my baby into a beautiful woman.”

  Fee smiled. “Thanks, Mom. And don’t worry about the cyberstore. Thi
s is my baby and Alice’s, and we’ll grow it into a big, robust business.”

  “If you say so, dear,” said Mom skeptically.

  “Well, I do say so. It’s the future, Mom. Look at Amazon. Look at Facebook. They started small and now just look at them. They’re giants.”

  “I don’t want Bell’s to become a giant, dear. A healthy family business is all we need.”

  “It will be very healthy before we’re through,” she said, and meant it, too. “And then we can expand into other cities,” she added, a dreamy look on her face. “And pretty soon there will be Bell’s Bakeries in all the States, and maybe even the rest of the world.”

  A look of panic came into Mom’s eyes. “You’re not serious, are you?”

  “Of course I am. Franchising is the way of the future, Mom. We don’t want to stay a mom and pop store all of our lives, do we?”

  “Oh, yes, we do,” said Mom decidedly. “Strangers selling things under the Bell name?! Out of the question! Only a true Bell can run Bell’s, sweetheart.”

  Felicity shook her head. “That’s so old-fashioned, Mom. We need to think bigger. Be bold and go where no one has gone before. Well, actually everyone has gone there before, and I guess now we’re next.”

  Mom’s lips formed into a thin line as she pressed them together. “No,” she said, quite unexpectedly. “I forbid you!”

  Felicity’s jaw dropped. “Mom!”

  “No. There is a reason Bell’s should stay Bell’s and not expand beyond the original store,” she said, shaking her head adamantly. “You will not do this, Fee. The cyber thing is fine, as it is still this store fulfilling the orders, but no other stores can ever be opened in the Bell name, is that understood?”

  Her mom’s vehemence came as a complete surprise, but finally she saw there was no way around it, as her mother looked dead serious. So she said, “Okay, Mom. If that’s what you want.”

  “Yes, it is what I want,” said her mother in clipped tones. “It is exactly what I want!” And with these words she stalked off toward the kitchen, where her husband and his brother were still baking up a storm. The swinging doors closed, but Fee was still staring after her mother. What just happened? she wondered. And now figured that soon she would have to organize a dinner to smooth things over between her and Mom, for this unexpected fight had all the hallmarks of a family feud in the making.