Whimsy and Woe

by Rebecca McRitchie

  ‘Right again,’ said Whimsy.

  Markus veered the car to the right, sending Woe flying to the left side of the back seat.

  ‘Sorry,’ Markus said again.

  Woe straightened himself in the back seat then searched through the mess that covered the floor and the seat. He pulled out used, smelly cans of tuna, a pair of black shoes, a fashionable hat with a feather in it, bottles of nail polish, used handkerchiefs, a broken watch, two bottles of Miss Chrys’s Miracle Mix Hair Glue and a collection of property pamphlets advertising houses for sale in Littlegate.

  ‘Now it’s straight all the way to the city,’ said Whimsy putting Apoline’s map down. She climbed over the back seat and joined her brother searching through their aunt’s mess.

  She noticed something dull glinting beneath a brush covered in white hair. Whimsy pulled it out. It was Mr Abernathy’s harmonica. Turning it over, she saw the engraving she had been shown many times: Life is a song — H.A. Whimsy gripped the harmonica tighter at the thought of her aunt taking it from Mr Abernathy. She showed it to Woe before handing it to him. He put it safely away in his coat pocket, hoping to return it if they saw their friend again.

  Having gotten to the end of the rubbish on the floor, Woe looked beneath the driver’s seat. Pushing aside birdseed, a rotten tomato and a broken pair of sunglasses, Woe found a bent white letter. A square-shaped, bent white letter. Pulling it out, he saw the recognisable stamp on the corner of the envelope. It was a hummingbird. He looked over at Whimsy who was already watching him, a pair of Apoline’s long gloves in her hand.

  ‘Open it,’ she said softly.

  The seal was already broken on the envelope. Woe pulled out the letter from inside and with it, three orange shimmering pieces of paper fell out too. Picking up one of them, Woe couldn’t believe his eyes.

  ‘Tickets,’ he breathed.

  ‘What?’ asked Markus over the roar of the engine.

  ‘Tickets! Three tickets!’ Woe cried excitedly holding the orange papers up high.

  ‘Let me see,’ said Whimsy disbelievingly.

  Woe handed one of the three shimmering tickets to his sister.

  Whimsy read aloud the words written in fancy letters across the shimmering ticket in her hand, ‘“The Thespians Society cordially invites you to attend the Favian Festival in Whitby City. Don’t be late.”’

  ‘Whitby City here we come!’ cried Woe.

  Markus grabbed the horn next to the steering wheel and gave it a handful of excited honks. Whimsy grinned as she turned the ticket over. Their plan had only extended as far as getting to the Whitby City gates but now . . . now they had a chance.

  ‘The letter,’ said Woe warily holding up the folded parchment in his other hand. At the sight of it, Whimsy felt her grin leave her. She and Woe both needed and dreaded to see what was written in the letter. Whimsy gave her brother a small prompting nod.

  Carefully, Woe unfolded the letter. ‘“Dear Apoline, he read aloud. “For the final act, bring the children. Vincent.”’

  Although Vincent’s words were brief, there was an ominousness about them that now hung in the air.

  ‘Why would he want us at the festival?’ asked Whimsy more to herself than her brother.

  ‘This could be why Apoline drove for days to catch us,’ said Woe.

  ‘Uh, Whimsy, Woe,’ said Markus worriedly, ‘we have a problem.’

  The Mordaunt siblings poked their heads up. In the distance, through the rain that lashed against the windshield, they could see the blue gates of Whitby City at the very far end of a mile-long avenue lined with trees.

  Suddenly Apoline’s car started to slow. Then with a cough, it slowed a little more, then some more and then even more until it came to a hiccupping stop in the middle of the road.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Woe.

  Markus looked at them worriedly. ‘It seems we are out of petrol.’

  65

  In which they race against the clock

  ‘What time is it, Woe?’ Whimsy asked. She looked out of the window. They were so close to the city gates yet still so far.

  Woe read his pocket watch. It was ten-to seven. ‘We have ten minutes!’ he said.

  Whimsy couldn’t let Apoline’s poorly fuelled automobile stop them from reaching their parents.

  ‘Run,’ she said to Woe and Markus. Then she flung open the car door and ran out into the rain. Markus did the same and after Woe shoved the letter, tickets and envelope into his pocket, he took off after his sister and Markus. Together the three of them ran towards the large gates ahead.

  Whimsy sucked in large gulps of cold air as she ran. It stung her throat and lungs. Her wet hair flew in front of her eyes. Her feet, her legs, her arms — her whole body — ached. She thought of Constance. Keep going. We must keep going. She thought of her parents. She hoped that Markus was right and that they were in Whitby City for the Favian Festival. She hoped that they were all right and safe. She pushed herself forward, letting the thought of reuniting with their parents carry her.

  Woe ran as fast as his legs could carry him. He felt like they had been running ever since they'd left the Idle Slug. He was tired and sore. He tried not to think about what Apoline had shouted at him from behind the locked basement door. But it echoed in his mind as he ran through the rain. Even if you find them . . . Even if you find them . . . And the unsettling words that Vincent wrote in his letter to their aunt. Why did he want him and his sister at the festival? It made him second-guess their decision to go to Whitby City at all. What was the final act he was referring to? They could be running right into the hands of those they’d been trying desperately to outrun. But if Vincent was at the Favian Festival, then that meant their parents might be too. Woe pushed on towards the blue gates ahead, ready to face whatever Vincent had planned for them.

  As they sprinted, the rain that had been pummelling down on them started to subside until it suddenly stopped altogether. Whimsy pushed her wet hair from her face. The Whitby City gates loomed closer. They were the tallest things Whimsy and Woe had ever seen.

  The gates were rounded at the top and stood open just wide enough to let through a line of people wearing their finest clothes. Then the strapping on Markus’s ankle started to come undone. He kept up with Whimsy and Woe, but the pain he was feeling was evident in the grimace that now lined his face.

  They were almost at the gates. Woe wondered how much time they had left until the gates closed. He couldn’t put his hand into his pocket to pull out the pocket watch as he ran but he guessed it would only be a couple of minutes. He wasn’t sure how long they could continue running and Markus looked like he couldn’t hold on for much longer. They could see the line of people entering the city in front of them getting shorter and shorter as they were let inside.

  The gates close

  Finally, the wet and gasping trio reached the end of the line at the Whitby City gates. They had been running so fast that they almost ran into the back of an elderly couple who were waiting in line. They stopped and tried to catch their breath. Whimsy bent over, her hands on her knees, a stitch creeping up her torso. Markus lifted his injured ankle off the ground and tried to put all of his weight on his other foot. Panting, Woe took out their tickets and looked at his pocket watch. They had reached the gates with only one minute to spare.

  66

  In which a different three attend the Favian Festival

  Inside Whitby City, people were dressed just as Markus had described. From the tops of their hats to the tips of their shoes, they adorned themselves in bright orange. The narrow cobblestone streets were filled with orange crowds and lined with stalls selling Favian Festival merchandise.

  Whimsy looked down at her own orange-less clothes and the orange-less clothes of her brother and their friend Markus. They stood out. More than she was comfortable with.

  ‘We stand out like a clumsy stagehand,’ said Woe, reading his sister’s uneasy thoughts.

  As they walked on through the c
ity, people waved orange flags and streamers, music filled the streets and vendors sold Favian Festival food, such as exploding popcorn and orange toffee apples. On each street corner, small groups of thespians performed mini-musicals to appreciative audiences.

  ‘Oof! Excuse me, young man,’ someone said as they bumped carelessly into Woe. Woe turned on his heel to apologise but instead suddenly took a startled step backwards. The man who had carelessly bumped into him wore a white mask over his face. The mask was a smiling face with holes for the laughing eyes, a small nose and wide grinning mouth.

  Whimsy grabbed Woe by the arm as she gazed up at the mask that loomed above them. She found herself unable to look away from the eerie face. Then the man behind it tilted his top hat to them and continued on his way through the crowd.

  Seeing their startled faces, Markus smiled and pointed to other people in the crowd. A lot of them wore the same white masks.

  ‘Theatre masks?’ Woe asked, unsure.

  ‘Favian masks,’ replied Markus.

  ‘Can you tell us about him?’ asked Whimsy staring warily into the crowd. ‘I don’t think our parents ever mentioned him.’

  ‘Some thespians are superstitious,’ said Markus as they continued down the street, passing a group of tap-dancers. ‘Once, a long time ago,’ he began, ‘there lived a remarkable thespian. His name was Favian. He wore an orange robe and was so gifted in acting that when Death came for him, Favian made Death believe he was someone else. Favian pretended to be someone else not once, not twice, but again and again and again for hundreds of years. He took on the roles of women, children, lowly servants, even animals, and each time Death believed him.’

  ‘He never ran out of roles?’ asked Woe, impressed.

  ‘Did Death ever catch him?’ Whimsy asked eagerly.

  Markus shook his head. ‘Some say that to this day, Favian himself attends every Favian Festival, still acting his way around the world, still evading death.’

  Whimsy felt goose bumps creep up on her arms as Markus’s story came to an end. She wanted to hear more about Favian. Could he really be here at the festival? Why hadn’t their parents ever mentioned him? Was he why their mother was so against acting to get out of trouble?

  Woe shuddered at the thought of a hundreds-of-years-old thespian walking amongst them at the festival. He looked nervously at the crowd.

  Suddenly loud bangs erupted nearby. Whimsy, Woe and Markus whirled around to see sparks of colour shoot upwards above the city’s buildings. Each spark burst into many smaller sparks and took a different shape and colour as they danced in the sky.

  ‘Don’t stare at them too long,’ said Whimsy with a smile.

  Woe looked at his sister, a lump of sadness rising to his chest. On his seventh birthday, their father had come home from his first day as the lead thespian in Fire, Fire, Pants on Fire, a musical about the invention of fireworks. From the theatre set, he had brought home with him two small, brown boxes. Written across the side of them were the words: KABOOM-BOOM. Excitedly, Whimsy and Woe had followed their father into the backyard. With their mother protectively by their sides, Whimsy and Woe watched as their father lit both boxes and ran back from them. Nothing happened at first and Woe remembered thinking that perhaps the fireworks were faulty. But then with a click and a whistle, four sparks shot upwards from the boxes. Woe remembered Whimsy giving a small shriek of surprise at the sound they made. As a family they watched as the fireworks continued to shoot upwards and explode with a crack into different colours. Woe couldn’t stop looking at them.

  Until now.

  ‘Don’t stare at them too long,’ his father had warned him.

  Woe remembered he had looked away quickly, worried about what would happen if he watched the lights in the sky for too long.

  ‘Your eyes could explode!’ said their father loudly before suddenly gasping and putting his hands over his eyes in mock pain. It had sent Whimsy, Woe and their mother into fits of giggles. That was the last birthday Woe had spent with his parents. And it was the last time they had seen fireworks. Until now.

  Silently, Whimsy and Woe watched the colours in the sky as they thought of their parents, a mixture of happiness and sadness filling their hearts.

  67

  In which they attempt to detect a detective

  When the fireworks finished, Whimsy, Woe and Markus walked further into Whitby City and further into the Favian Festival.

  ‘What now?’ Woe asked.

  ‘Should we look for Fry?’ Whimsy asked, remembering that the detective was supposed to already be in Whitby City.

  Markus nodded. He scanned the crowd as they walked. Around them people stopped to watch performances, stood and waited in long lines to buy festival food and danced happily to festival music.

  ‘He might be hard to spot,’ said Markus, nodding to the throngs of people all around them.

  There were stalls set up with well-dressed men and women on small stages addressing gathered crowds and selling their wares.

  ‘Witness the first-ever shrinking serum,’ said one man in a small hat. ‘Get those lead roles you were once too tall for!’

  ‘Have an unnaturally high voice? Bursting the director’s eardrums? No problem. The LowGo mask can help with that,’ said one woman in an orange vest. In her hand she held a small round mask with leather straps.

  ‘Steam-powered goggles . . . get your steam-powered goggles,’ said another woman who wore big, round brass goggles, small puffs of steam floating out of them.

  Whimsy, Woe and Markus stopped near a large group of people watching a man with a long blond braid walk animatedly across his small stage.

  ‘Do you get butterflies in your stomach before every performance?’ he asked the crowd. ‘Does your heart beat faster? Do your palms become sweaty? Do your knees shake? Do you feel an incredible need to run away? Well, I’m afraid to say, you might have stage fright.’

  The audience gasped in horror.

  The man on stage nodded solemnly.

  ‘Wh-what do we do?’ called a woman from the audience.

  The man on stage smiled and pulled from behind his back a small glass vial. In it was a red liquid. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is Eaze.’

  The audience murmured, intrigued.

  ‘Drink it before every performance and your nerves, your anxieties and your stage fright will disappear,’ said the man and then he made a quick movement with his hand and the vial was gone.

  They moved along. Nearby there were rows of small orange tents. They poked their heads into a few of them and found that each tent was full of people either watching competitions or taking classes. There were juggling competitions, singing competitions, wig-making competitions, dancing competitions, costume-making competitions, set-design shows, acting lessons, unicycle lessons, how to win awards lessons, dancing lessons and singing lessons. In one of the tents, a woman stood in front of a group of people and just stared at them to demonstrate the importance of eye contact. Some tents had signs like, How to Fill a Room with Nothing But Your Voice, Poor Review? Poor You, Memorise with Your Eyes, To Heckle or Not to Heckle and Superb Stage Sing-Alongs. There wasn’t any sign of Fry in any of the competitions or classes.

  Past the tents, the trio turned a corner and children much younger than themselves ran past them holding fistfuls of orange tickets. Quickly, Whimsy, Woe and Markus saw why. In front of them, the street tripled in size and all the way along it were festival games and rides.

  Above their heads, people screamed in delight from orange-painted carts that rattled along wooden rollercoaster tracks. The tracks looped and turned in and around buildings. Children whirled around on a carousel that had large music notes for seats. Some people slid down a tall mechanical slide in the shape of a tongue that stuck out from a large inflatable Favian face. The slide moved up and down, trying to knock off the sliders onto a large inflatable mat underneath. Others crowded around small booths that were dotted along the street and played festival games.

  Wo
e and Markus couldn’t take their eyes off the rollercoaster ride that zoomed overhead.

  ‘Do you think we can . . .’ Woe said motioning to the rides around them. But deep down Woe already knew the answer. Although they looked like fun, they weren’t here for the rides.

  Whimsy wished they could stop. She was tired and they had done a lot of journeying since leaving the Idle Slug. She wanted to rest. She wanted to have fun. Perhaps play a game or go on a ride. But they needed to find Fry, and their parents.

  Up and down the street, game attendants kept calling out to festival-goers, asking them to play the game at their booth.

  ‘Step right up! Try your hand at the balloon toss!’ said one.

  ‘Can you defeat the claw?’ called another.

  Whimsy remembered the time their parents had taken them to a street fair in Littlegate when they were younger. It had rides and games like these. Their father had played a game where he had to strike a big red button with a large hammer as hard as he could to ring a bell at the very top of a tower. He struck it three times but the lever only ever went halfway up the tower. With a smile, Whimsy remembered fondly how their mother then took the hammer from their father, struck the big red button and the lever went flying all the way to the top, ringing the bell. The prize was a small wooden elephant that their mother had kept by her nightstand in her room. A room which now sat empty.

  ‘You three,’ came a low voice from a booth nearby. Turning, Whimsy, Woe and Markus saw a game attendant pointing directly at them with a long stick. He stood in front of a game booth that had a big sign hanging above it that read: COVER THE SPOT.

  ‘Care to try your hand at the easiest game in the entire festival?’ he asked.

  ‘The easiest?’ repeated Markus, intrigued.

  ‘I don’t think we should,’ said Whimsy. They needed to find Fry and they needed to get to the Thespian Competition whenever and wherever it was taking place.