by Matthew Ward
It was then that the boy began to detect a distinct, high-pitched roar rising above the pandemonium.
In an instant, the screams of horror turned to shouts of astonishment as something large and luminous streaked through the sky overhead.
It appeared to be a man in a rocket pack.
The next moment, Mr. Whipple lost his grip on the platform. But before he had fallen more than a few feet, the swooping airman caught him with one arm around the chest. The force of Mr. Whipple’s fall caused the pair to dip unnervingly toward the flames, but a quick increase in the rocket pack’s thrust corrected their path. Soon they were soaring away from the deadly platform as—with one final screech—the catwalk separated from its supports and plunged into the blaze below.
Circling back over the top of the crumbling cake, the pilot and his passenger promptly began their descent. A moment later they were alighting on the ground beside Arthur and the rest of his anxious family. The tightness in Arthur’s throat became almost bearable again.
Now that they were so close, the boy was afforded a full view of his father’s rocket-powered rescuer. Apart from the rocket pack, the formality of the man’s jacket and tie was further contrasted by the dark-visored crash helmet that encased his head. Arthur could not remember being in the presence of a more awe-inspiring figure.
As the two men planted their feet firmly on the ground, Mr. Whipple staggered forward, practically doubling over with exhaustion—but his family rushed to his aid, throwing their arms around him and propping him up.
“Daddy, you’re all right!” cried Lenora, her eyes filling with tears.
“That was a close one, eh Dad?” said Henry.
“We were so worried!” sobbed Penelope.
Arthur squeezed in amongst his family in their massive embrace, closing his eyes and inhaling through his nostrils. It seemed his father would indeed live to be disappointed by his recordless son another day—and Arthur could not have been happier for the opportunity.
“Thank you, children,” panted Mr. Whipple. “I am exceedingly glad to be back on the ground with you all. But we’ve no time to waste—we must help Mr. Mahankali and Shiva!”
Arthur’s father stepped away from the circle, but just as he started for the stage, Uncle Mervyn appeared at his back—and with him, the fire brigade.
A moment later, a team of firemen raced past with axes and hoses in hand—and set about issuing streams of water onto the burning stage before them.
Mr. Whipple rushed to their chief and cried, “There is a man and an elephant in the midst of that mess who are both very dear to us. Please—you must bring them back alive!”
“We’ll do our best, sir—but it doesn’t look good from here.”
Arthur’s father returned to his family with his head hung low, and Mrs. Whipple put a comforting arm around her husband. “They’ll be all right, dear,” she said in the most reassuring voice she could muster. “When have they ever let us down before?”
As the fire brigade continued to douse the stage, Mr. Whipple turned to his rocket-pack-wearing rescuer, addressing him with the tone of a man recently reminded of his own mortality. “Thank God for you, Wilhelm—I was sure I was a goner. It’s a good thing you convinced me to purchase that rocket pack—but how did you ever get it to work? Last I heard, you still couldn’t get the blasted thing off the ground….”
Before the man in the rocket pack could speak, a blackened and battered Wilhelm limped his way around the cake and into the gathering—much to Mr. Whipple’s surprise, of course, as Arthur could plainly see. Some yards behind the butler trailed Mrs. Waite, who was clearly shocked as well—by how difficult it was keeping up with a man who had been completely unconscious just one minute earlier.
“Oh thank God you all are all right,” Wilhelm raved to a very confused Mr. Whipple. “I came as soon as I voke up.” His eyes scanning the scene as he spoke, Wilhelm seemed to notice something missing. “But vhere is Mahankali and Shiva? Mrs. Vaite says they saved my life.”
Mr. Whipple was so taken aback by the unexpected appearance of a second Wilhelm that all he could get out was: “Um—er—they’ve fallen through the stage—the fire brigade is doing their best—but what are you…I thought…” His head now darted back and forth between the Wilhelm in front of him and the helmeted man with the rocket pack to his rear.
Upon hearing Mr. Whipple’s fragmented, yet disturbing account, the unhelmeted Wilhelm’s mouth dropped open with deep concern and blurted, “I must help them!” Then, leaving his master in utter bewilderment, the battered butler took off hobbling toward the stage as fast as his injured legs would carry him (which was indeed much faster than most men can run on perfectly healthy legs). Rushing up the stage steps, Wilhelm grabbed an ax from one of the firemen and dashed through the spray of water and dwindling flames, fighting his way to the stage’s center. Discovering an open gash in the floorboards, he promptly jumped through it, feet first—and disappeared from view.
“Godspeed, old boy,” muttered Mr. Whipple, breaking free of his bewilderment to admire the butler’s bravery.
With his best man on the job, there was little more Mr. Whipple could do to help, so he turned back to the mysterious man in the rocket pack. “My apologies for incorrectly addressing you earlier, good sir. You can see I am not altogether in my right mind this evening. Now, if you’ll permit me—to whom does my family owe their deepest debt of gratitude for so courageously saving their father’s life?”
As the man began to lift his helmet, he spoke for the first time.
“Sorry I couldn’t get to you sooner there, but I had to pop out to the car and grab the old rocket pack. Good thing we’ve been taking it with us everywhere we go lately. You just never know when you might need a rocket pack these days, eh, Charlie?”
With his helmet fully removed, the man’s chiseled features became visible, and Arthur instantly recognized him as Rex Goldwin, the Whipples’ new neighbor—and Ruby Goldwin’s father.
Having finally learned the girl’s name, Arthur had thought he’d put an end to the mystery surrounding her—but now the Goldwin girl and her family seemed more mysterious than ever. Not even the Whipples kept a rocket pack in their car.
As Arthur’s father stood speechless, Mrs. Whipple ran to Rex Goldwin, taking his hand in hers and shaking it vigorously. “Oh, you dear, dear man!” she cried. “You are one remarkable neighbor, Mr. Goldwin. We’ve only known you for a little over an hour—and here you’ve already saved my husband’s life. I’m sure there is nothing we can ever do to fully repay such an act of selflessness, but if anything ever comes to mind, please do not hesitate to ask. We are deeply indebted to you for the rest of our lives!”
“Now don’t get carried away, dear,” her husband frowned.
“Why, what ever do you mean, Charles? You owe this man your very life, and I don’t think you’ve so much as thanked him.”
“Yes…of course,” he sighed. “Thank you…Mr. Goldwin.”
“Don’t mention it, Charlie! What else are neighbors for, if not to lend a helping hand when needed?”
At that moment, Rita Goldwin and eight of her children rushed through the crowd and flocked around their father, hugging him and congratulating him for such a spectacular rescue.
Ruby, the ninth and final Goldwin child in attendance, shuffled in a moment later and immediately looked to Arthur, who returned her gaze with a subtle yet friendly smile. He could not hide the strange new connection he felt with her: it was because of her father’s heroism that his own father was still alive.
The girl, however, did not smile back. Her dark-outlined eyes were filled with a peculiar unease that sapped the smile from Arthur’s face and made him anxious all over again.
The two held their gaze for one brief moment—until Ruby’s mother stepped between them to address Arthur’s father.
“Charles,” she said, “we can’t tell you how glad we are you didn’t fall into that terrible fire. How awful that would hav
e been for you—and on your birthday! My Rex has been messing about with that ridiculous rocket pack for months now. Who knew it would end up saving a life as valuable as your own?”
“In fact, dear,” said Rex Goldwin, “I believe that marks the First Human Rescue by Rocket Pack Ever Recorded—doesn’t it, Mr. McCleary?”
“I…believe it does, Mr. Goldwin,” Uncle Mervyn replied distractedly. He was busy staring at the disintegrating stage before them, into which two of his dear friends had disappeared.
“Hmm,” Rex added, scrunching his brow, “I wonder if this doesn’t present us with a certain groundbreaking opportunity here. Up till now, of course, no world record publication has ever published a record broken by someone sponsored by a competitor. But I know Ardmore has been hoping to collaborate for years—and seeing as it was Grazelby’s biggest star whose life was saved, I’m sure the Guide will want to do something to commemorate the occasion…perhaps by jointly publishing the rocket-pack rescue record with the Ardmore Almanac?”
Mr. Whipple hardly had time to open his mouth before his wife gripped his arm and blurted, “Why, what an excellent idea, Mr. Goldwin. Don’t you think it’s an excellent idea, dear?”
Arthur’s father just managed to get out a quick, “But dear—” before Mrs. Whipple clamped her fingernails down on his arm. Mr. Whipple’s face fell like a scolded child’s. “Of course,” he said. “What an excellent idea.”
Uncle Mervyn, hearing agreement from both parties, nodded his consent. “Very well then. The International World Record Federation will no doubt be pleased to see cooperation between competing publications under its governance. I’ll file the proposal first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Oh my!” exclaimed Rex Goldwin. “I never dreamt the First Ever Collaboration between Ardmore and Grazelby would be for a record of mine—and for something so unexpected!” His eyes grew suddenly wide. “Hang on,” he blurted, “what time is it?”
Uncle Mervyn glanced at his watch and then back at the stage. “Eleven forty-eight,” he replied absentmindedly.
“So we haven’t missed the eligibility deadline then?”
“No,” said Uncle Mervyn. “It’s not till midnight.”
“Well then,” said Rex, “I believe these two records have just brought my family’s tally to the minimum thousand-record requirement.”
“Do you wish to declare?” asked Uncle Mervyn.
“We do,” said Rex. “Just give me the proper forms, and I’ll see to it they’re all filled out in the next twelve minutes.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said the certifier. “You may send me your paperwork tomorrow. Once I verify the information, I’ll simply backdate the forms, and then forward them on to the IWRF.”
“Great Barrier Reef!” shouted Rex as he wrapped his arms around his family. “Well, kids—it looks like we’ll be eligible for this year’s championships after all! Don’t ever let anybody tell you good things can’t come out of tragedy.”
Indeed, Arthur had never seen his father looking so tragic in all his life.
Soon, the stage fire had been reduced to a thick cloud of steam above the blackened floorboards. Members of the fire brigade rushed onto the stage and set about lowering a harness into the huge gash in the stage’s center.
As the growing crowd looked on with anticipation, the intrepid Whipple butler emerged from the crevice, carrying a lifeless figure in his arms.
Though the bystanders who had witnessed the horrific crash knew that the body in Wilhelm’s arms belonged to Mr. Mahankali, it scarcely seemed possible that it could be the same man. The right side of his suit was mostly missing, having been scorched clean through—and the silver-streaked hair that once covered his entire body now appeared to cover little more than half of it.
As Wilhelm carried the burnt figure down the stage steps and onto the lawn, the Whipple dogs flocked to their fallen master, whimpering with worry.
From this distance, Arthur and the other onlookers could see that Mr. Mahankali’s face was devoid of life and badly burned. The hair around his right ear and lower jaw had all been singed away, so that his dark and blistering skin was exposed to the night air, probably for the first time in his life. Despite his rather gruesome wounds, Arthur was amazed at how peaceful the man looked, considering all the violence that had befallen him. The boy felt a sudden pang of dread. So this was what death looked like.
But just as the tears began to well up in Arthur’s eyes, the dead man spoke.
“Shi-va…” muttered the Panther-Man in a weakened whisper, peering out through barely opened eyelids.
The crowd gasped. Upon hearing their master’s voice, the dogs went wild, licking his face in jubilation. The Whipples rushed to Mr. Mahankali’s side. Arthur’s tears emerged as tears of joy.
Wilhelm was so overwhelmed with happiness to see his dear friend alive, he nearly dropped the man. “Mahankali!” he exclaimed. “You’re not dead!”
“Shi-va…” repeated the mangled man.
“There is no need to vorry about the elephant. He is still breathing, and they are vorking very hard to free him,” reassured Wilhelm. “Do not vorry, my friend. They vill have him out in no time. But now vee must get you to a hospital!”
With that, Wilhelm broke into a run and hurried off through the crowd toward the helipad on the other side of the estate.
Arthur could hardly process all he had experienced in the last few short hours. Between the bitter failures, terrifying encounters, and horrific catastrophes, there had been some major discoveries, great honors, and fantastic rescues. But now, as his father gathered his family and led them off after their comrades, the boy could think of nothing else but the heroic gamekeeper who currently lingered at death’s door.
“Poor Mahankali,” Arthur overheard his father remark somberly to Uncle Mervyn. “He’s immensely fortunate just to be alive, but with so much hair burned away, he will now most certainly lose his ‘World’s Hairiest’ title to that awful Monkey-Man from Mongolia. I doubt our friend will feel very fortunate at all when he realizes what he has lost. It’s hard to say which is worse—losing one’s life, or losing one’s greatest world record.”
Then, with a sudden, hardened resolve, the Whipple patriarch declared, “I swear—if this curse has been aided by anyone on this mortal plane, I will not stop till I see the culprit hanged for what he has done to our dear Mr. Mahankali!”
It was a vow he would soon live to regret.
THE AFTERMATH
MORE MISHAPS AT
WHIPPLE MANOR!
WHIPPLES SUFFER SECOND CRUSHING SCARE—AND ADD DEATH BY FIRE TO LIST OF HOUSEHOLD DANGERS
This year’s so-called Whipple Family Birthday Extravaganza ended in disaster Saturday night when over a dozen thousand-pound birthday candles spontaneously fell from a twenty-foot-tall birthday cake and into a crowd of unsuspecting guests. After nearly crushing hundreds of horrified partygoers, the rogue candles set fire to an outdoor stage, stranding the entire Whipple family on a catwalk some forty feet in the air for over a quarter of an hour.
Several of the Whipples’ employees were badly burned in the melee—including Phoolendu Mahankali (better known as the celebrated Panther-Man of Pandharpur) and his equally distinguished elephant sidekick, Shiva—who are both in critical condition at the time of this writing. (Once hailed as the World’s Hairiest Living Man, Mahankali is not expected to retain his title, even if he does survive his injuries.)
Yet, despite its tragedies, the evening was not without its inspiring moments—largely provided by one Rex Goldwin, who, in the First Human Rescue by Rocket Pack, daringly saved Charles Whipple from falling to a fiery death.
The rescue capped off Goldwin’s recent return to public record breaking—after a dazzling start to his career was followed by some two decades of relative obscurity. Though the feat is set to mark the First Ever Cosponsored Entry in the prestigious Grazelby’s Guide to World Records and Fantastic Feats, Goldwin and his family have just d
eclared their eligibility for this year’s World Record World Championships under the sponsorship of The Amazing Ardmore Almanac of the Ridiculously Remarkable, one of Grazelby’s less-respected competitors—a distinction, however, which may now be poised for reevaluation.
“Nonstop” Norman Prattle, the popular radio personality who served as master of ceremonies for the event, says he barely escaped with his life—and is quick to praise Goldwin’s efforts.
“I rescued as many people as I could before I was forced to evacuate,” Prattle recounts, “but I just couldn’t save them all. Dodging giant falling birthday candles was certainly never listed in the job description for emcee, I can tell you that! I hear the Whipples themselves would have been burnt to a crisp had this Rex Goldwin fellow not been there to save the day—I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot more of him in the future. I hate to say this, but I’m worried the Whipples may be losing their touch.”
Saturday’s “Birthday Cake Catastrophe” was not the first stain on the Whipple family’s safety record. The incident is highly reminiscent of February’s “French Toast Fiasco,” in which one of the Whipple octuplets was nearly crushed to death by her breakfast.
After this second near-fatal incident at Neverfall Hall in as many months, some more excitable observers have drawn comparisons to the “Lyon’s Curse”—the shadowy run of misfortune from the Whipples’ distant past—but the Whipples have refused to comment on any such speculation. Meanwhile, other, more cynical pundits are simply accusing the Whipples of gross negligence—and argue the family’s proposed involvement in next month’s controversial Unsafe Sports Showdown is beyond the bounds of good taste.
The Whipples, for their part, have reportedly rejected all allegations of negligence, instead attributing the incident to “foul play” and procuring the services of the renowned detective, Inspector Hadrian Smudge.
Smudge, a guest of the Whipples during the incident, holds the record for Most Solved Cases in History. Though recently retired from Scotland Yard, Smudge now lends his services to various government agencies and select private individuals.
