"Come along, children," said Mr. Peters, gathering them all together. He glanced about guardedly. "Into the classroom. We're late enough as it is."
The children followed him through a gooey, drooping archway to the classroom, with Whitstable strutting behind them like a proud peacock, admiring his handy work.
It was an odd day at Ridgedale Elementary. Since the school was slowly melting, it was almost impossible to learn anything. During the geography class, when Mr. Peters spun a globe upon its pedestal, it wobbled on its axis and fell with a splat to the floor. Whenever he tried to write on the chalkboard, the letters ran down it and became illegible. Finally he threw up his hands. The class spent the rest of the day outside doing sports, but even that was a disaster—when kids threw the javelin, their spears flopped about like garden hoses, and tossing the discus was like trying to throw custard. Eventually they had to stop that too.
On the bus home, Charlie turned to Whitstable, angrily. "You've got to do something about the school!" he said. "You've ruined it!"
Whitstable looked dumbfounded. "But I thought that's what you wanted," he said. "You said that you don't like going to school!"
"That's right," said Charlie, "but I didn't say melt the school!"
Whitstable looked perplexed.
"But that's what Salamanderman does," he said. "I read it in your comic. He melts things with his ultra-blaster! I thought you'd be happy!"
"Salamanderman would never melt a school!" said Charlie, folding his arms and frowning crossly. "He only melts bad people's things—like bank robber's cars and the assets of evil corporations! Not schools!"
Whitstable stared glumly away. "So, you don't want me to melt your dentist’s office then?" he asked, raising a hopeful eyebrow.
Charlie thought about it for a moment. "No!" he said at last. "Don't melt that either. Don't melt anything else. You're just causing trouble!"
Whitstable looked hurt.
"I just want to be your friend," he said. And then, brightening. "Say! How about if we listen to some records on the gramophone player in my room tonight? I've got some Glenn Miller and his orchestra, and some Benny Green... Hey Charlie, isn't that your mom?"
Charlie turned his head sharply. The bus was passing through downtown. Sure enough, Whitstable was pointing at Charlie’s mother. She stood outside a hairdresser's shop beside her car. But there was someone else there too—a tall, handsome, tanned man with short, dark, curly hair—her hairdresser.
Charlie gasped.
They were holding hands and staring dreamily into one another's eyes.
Charlie blinked in disbelief.
"Told you so," said Whitstable, with a creepy nod of self-satisfaction.
Charlie sank back in his seat and stared morbidly into space.
"Leave me alone, OK?" he said grimly.
The bus stopped on the street where the two boys lived. They got off and began to walk home. Whitstable walked three paces behind Charlie.
"Well, we could buy some slingshots," suggested Whitstable, "or maybe we could find some stones and—"
"No!" barked Charlie.
They reached the front of the house and saw that a variety of cars and a motorcycle were parked outside. Charlie remembered that this evening was his father's PC-users meeting—Freaks and Geeks, as his mother called it. Only now, just like his father, they had all been laid off from Accu-Chip, so now they were Unemployed Freaks and Geeks. But there was something far more sinister, too. Loitering beneath a lamppost on the street opposite, the Ratman and his two velveteen Victorian assassins, watched the house intently.
Charlie nervously ducked behind a hedge.
"We've got to do something!" he hissed.
Whitstable rolled his eyes. "It's useless really," he said. "They'll never give up."
Charlie gave Whitstable a look.
"Quick!" he said. "Into the house!"
And with that, they dashed across the lawn, opened the door, and, ducking inside, stood breathing heavily with their backs to the door.
"Don't cause any more trouble," said Charlie, regarding Whitstable sorely. He passed into the kitchen, where he found his father and the freaks and geeks, sitting around the table in a cloud of cigar smoke. This seemed strange to Charlie, since his father didn't usually smoke cigars. The longhaired, leather-jacketed one was there, as was the twitchy, spectacled one who always pulled his hair out. In addition, there was the short, bald one. Amidst them all sat Charlie's father, dealing out cards for a game of poker.
Charlie drew in his breath sharply, for his dad looked entirely unlike himself. His hair was greasy and looked like it hadn't been combed for days. He was unshaven and wore a loose shirt that was unbuttoned to the navel. Furthermore, a thick brown cigar protruded from the corner of his mouth, and a tumbler of hard liquor was on the table beside him. He didn't even look up from the cards as the two boys entered.
"Hello boys," he said, flicking some ash into a tray. "How was school?"
"Umm, OK," said Charlie confusedly. "What's going on?"
Mr. Goodfellow glanced about in bemusement. "Oh, this?" he said, taking the cigar from his mouth and looking at it. "Don't know, really." He placed the cigar back between his lips and puffed on it, producing a cloud of smoke which joined the rest of the haze. "Your mother doesn't much like it. Dinner's in the fridge," he said. "Though, I don't think there's much except leftovers. There's some beer though, if you want it."
"Beer?" said Charlie with disbelief.
"Oh, and there's no electricity," said his father. "We've been cut off. Your mother forgot to pay the bill. Which is a good thing, since there isn't any money in the bank account. Say, Whitstable? Do ya think you could spring us some cash? It’s just that I played my last hand and my wallets a little thin, y' know?"
"Sure, Mr. Goodfellow," said Whitstable, digging deep into his pocket and producing a wad of dollars. "How much do you need?"
Mr. Goodfellow took them all. "That ought to do it," he said, throwing the wad of bills down on the table and exhaling a cloud of smoke. He grinned at the Freaks and Geeks. "Who's in?" he asked them. "Anyone?"
The two boys began to move through the kitchen, but as Whitstable passed Mr. Goodfellow’s chair, Mr. Goodfellow laid his hand upon his shoulder.
"Let this young man be an example to you, Charlie," he said. "He has a Saturday job so that he can pay his bills on time. Now there's a fine, young fellow—an example to us all! And he even wears a bow tie!"
A grunt of approval went up from the Freaks and Geeks. As for Whitstable, he positively beamed—until he saw Charlie frowning at him.
"Now you two skedaddle!" said Mr. Goodfellow. And with that, he drained the last of the whiskey from his tumbler.
As Charlie climbed the stairs to his room, he wondered at all that had happened to him. Within the space of a couple of days, his father had lost his job and become an alcoholic gambler, and his mother was consorting with her hairdresser. There could be only one reason for it all. He turned around sharply. "It's all because of you!" he said to Whitstable. "Isn't it?"
Whitstable flustered. "I... I—"
"Don't tell me it isn't," said Charlie vehemently. "You've done all of this with some kind of magic. You've made my father lose his job and become an alcoholic. You've made my mother lose her mind and start seeing her hairdresser. And you've lied so that you could come and live with us. You did it all because you want something. Don't you?"
Charlie grabbed Whitstable by his shirt lapel and pushed him against the wall. "Don't you?" he said.
"Yes," gulped Whitstable, hardly able to breathe.
"What is it?" snarled Charlie.
Whitstable struggled with the words. "To be your friend?" he said weakly.
"No!" said Charlie. "What's the real reason?"
Whitstable struggled in Charlie's grasp, but Charlie wouldn't let him go.
At last, Whitstable lowered his eyes.
"Because I need your help," he said. "With something important."
A gradual understanding was dawning upon Charlie. He slowly released his grip on the boy.
"With what?" he asked.
"Come with me to Wizard Heights at midnight," said Whitstable, "and I'll show you."
Chapter 8
As Charlie got dressed in his room at midnight, it was with nowhere near the enthusiasm that he had the first time Whitstable had invited him to Wizard Heights. It was abundantly clear to him now that the strange boy in the room down the hall had much more devious intentions than just being his friend.
Charlie knew it was no coincidence that everything in his life had begun to fall apart when he had met Whitstable, but what he didn't know was why or how Whitstable had done it. How exactly had he made the row boat fly or melted the school or turned his parents crazy? Clearly he was some kind of magician, or the son of a magician perhaps, or a magician's apprentice, or something like that. Either way, he seemed to have enough magic tricks up his sleeves to make a sorcerer blanche.
Charlie slipped on his sweater and laced up his sneakers. Then slowly, so as to not make it creak, he opened his bedroom door, tiptoed down the dark stairs, passed through the living room and kitchen, and stole out through the kitchen door to the backyard beyond. Whitstable was waiting for him on the moonlit lawn, that creepy, cat-like smile on his lips again.
"Don't speak," said Charlie, throwing a scarf around his neck. "Lets just go."
They slowly rode, side-by-side down the empty streets of the Pleasant Valley Estates, not saying a word. Then they cycled over the hill toward Wizard Heights.
"You know," said Whitstable, as they glided toward the gates, "you really will like what I'm going to show you tonight. You really ought to thank me."
Charlie dismounted his bicycle and frowned resentfully at Whitstable. "Thank you?" he said. "You turn my life upside down. Then you ask me to thank you? Let's get this straight, the only reason I'm helping you is so that I can get my life back to the way it used to be! Not because I want to go on an adventure or be your friend!"
Whitstable seemed taken aback at this. Shaking his head with dismay, he pushed open the gate. "You know," he said, "I'm really not as bad as you think I am..."
Charlie was about to tell Whitstable that he was every bit as bad as that, when a blood curdling howl filled the night’s air.
"What was that?" asked Charlie, stopping dead in his tracks, his eyes bulging. "It sounded like a wolf howl!"
Whitstable's eyes had become as wide as moons. He peered about at the dark places around them as if at any moment something might suddenly leap out. Then he quickly said, "Come on, let’s get to the city." So they cautiously cycled the winding, bracken path. Only when they had entered the bustling nighttime streets of the city did Whitstable show any sign of relaxing. "Quickly!" he said, hurrying Charlie beneath the dark eaves of the Victorian houses; through moonlit, cobbled streets where beggars shook tin plates from the shadows. He glanced furtively toward the starry sky. "We don't know who might be around tonight!"
"Around?" asked Charlie. "What do you mean? Are people after you? Did you do something wrong?"
"Shhh!" said Whitstable. "Quickly! In here!"
The two boys had reached the tall, half-timbered, Bavarian-style house. Next to it, within a tall, dark hedge, was a gothic, wooden door. Creaking it open, Whitstable glanced through—then he hurriedly beckoned Charlie inside.
The garden beyond the door was bathed in soft moonlight. White stone statues of Greek gods were scattered on a long, sloping lawn, and amongst them, as centerpiece to it all, a grandiose fountain sprinkled water like glittering diamonds into the air. This was all secondary however, for to their left, the mansion loomed. Three stories tall, with white stone columns, marble steps, and large windows, golden light shone from it, reflecting on the two boy's faces.
"I thought you said your grandfather was cryogenically frozen?" said Charlie. "Why are the lights on?"
"He is cryogenically frozen," replied Whitstable, "but I have to give the impression that somebody’s in, don't I?"
"You mean, you live here alone?" asked Charlie, following him up the wide stone steps to the doors.
"Of course," replied Whitstable, searching for a key in his pocket.
"What happened to your parents?" asked Charlie.
"Dead," replied Whitstable without skipping a beat. "They went on an expedition to a far-away land and were never seen again."
Charlie was a little taken aback at the nonchalant way in which Whitstable said this. Furthermore, there was something about the boy’s off-the-cuff response that led him to believe that Whitstable was lying. However, there was no time to challenge his words. Whitstable had produced the door key. It was the strangest device that Charlie had ever seen—long and slender and made of iron, with several crooked forks in it. Whitstable slid it into the door’s spider-like keyhole and turned it until there came a satisfying clunk. Charlie gasped. Emblems upon the door that had been invisible, began to glow—ancient symbols in a magical language shone vibrant and blue, and the doors clicked open, beckoning entry to the interior of the mansion.
"Come on," said Whitstable. "Quickly! Inside!"
The house that Charlie stepped into was opulent. Having entered by the back door, they now stood in a sitting room that was decorated in a style that was reminiscent of nineteen-thirties America. About them sat chic furniture—a divan, a love seat, and elegant white leather-upholstered chairs. Upon the walls hung oil paintings. One was of an old, bald man with a ruddy face and an extravagant moustache. With a monocle in his eye, he gazed down at them with a circumspect expression.
"That's my grandfather, Benjamin," said Whitstable, regarding it proudly. "The one who is cryogenically frozen."
"Is this him, too?" asked Charlie, noticing a white marble bust that sat on a stone pedestal beside him.
"No," said Whitstable, "that's Beethoven. You know, the composer..."
"Oh," said Charlie, and then, spotting a grand piano amongst some exotic plants in the center of the room. "So your grandfather liked music, then?"
"Yes," replied Whitstable. "Would you like to hear a tune?" Passing to the piano, he sat down, and a lilting, dulcet melody arose, and as Whitstable's hands glided masterfully across the keys. He began to sing.
There's a chap I know whose stuck in a box...
Sometimes I think that he looks rather lost...
Every now and then I think he's got something to say..
But the truth is that he's just wasting away...
You see he's frozen! Terribly frozen!
From his head to his feet, from his knees to his beak,
Cool as a cucumber some might say.
If he gets any colder they shall take him away!
He's frozen! Terribly frozen!
Glacial and hibernal,
hyperboreal and niveous,
inclement, ice-bound, frigid,
frosty and marmoreal,
I wont say that he's a frigid bore,
but his glacial stare is hard to ignore.
He's frozen! Terribly frozen!
From his head to his feet, from his knees to his beak,
Cool as a cucumber some might say.
If he gets any colder they shall take him awwwaaaay...
At that moment, Charlie felt the ground beneath his feet begin to shake, and the tiny jewels in the crystal chandeliers above their heads trembled vigorously. Marble busts on their pedestals swayed back and forth. And then, as abruptly as the shaking had begun, it ceased.
"What on earth was that?" he said, looking around with concern.
Whitstable clenched his teeth and cast about at the room angrily. He slammed down the lid of the piano, sending a discordant hum through its body. Then he smiled sweetly at Charlie. "Earthquake," he said with a casual little laugh. "They happen all the time around here. Surely you've felt them before? Wizard Heights is built upon a fault, you see. Those silly magicians didn’t think about that. Nothing to worry about. Would you
like a sherry? I’m going to have one."
Charlie said that of course he did not want one. Nevertheless, Whitstable passed to a crystal decanter that sat upon a small table nearby, and began to pour himself one into a tumbler. "I suppose you'll be wanting to hear all about tonight’s adventure, then?"
"If it means that I can get my family back to normal sooner," said Charlie flatly, "then, yes."
Whitstable sipped the sherry and gave a casual, little chuckle. "Very good," he said. "Follow me." He led Charlie toward a grand staircase which they climbed to a rotunda that circled above the sitting room. Passing along it, they came at last to a plain, white door. Whitstable fumbled with some keys. Finding the right one, he unlocked the door and showed Charlie in.
It was a sterile-smelling, clinical, white room with one window which revealed a view of the moonlit rooftops and spires of the city. In the center of the room, within what could only be described as a frosty, glass coffin, lay a bald, elderly man who was naked. Wires sprouted from the box, attached to a compact machine which sat beside the bed. It beeped and buzzed and occasionally spit out an unfeasibly long, ticker-tape-like report.
"You see, he's quite alive," said Whitstable cheerfully. He rapped the little machine’s LED display with his knuckles and they observed as, every few seconds, it flickered with a sharp line that indicated a heartbeat.
Wizard Heights - Book 1 - The Legend of the Sorcerer King Page 6
