The Fantastic Family Whipple

by Matthew Ward

  The figure carved into the stone was in fact a sunken-cheeked, sullen-faced man, wearing an old-fashioned suit and ascot tie. His straight, shoulder-length hair was capped with a towering top hat, and in his outstretched palms, he cradled a single human skull.

  With the discovery of this final detail, the broad, feathery wings that extended from the figure’s back no longer gave the least bit of comfort to Arthur. While it was always nice to think that angels were able to get to him anywhere their wings could carry them, it was not half so pleasant thinking the same of this fellow.

  Arthur gulped and shifted his attention to the large monument that served as the statue’s base, where he proceeded to read the following inscription:

  HERE LIES

  OBEDIAH DIGBY LOWE

  “DR. DOORNAIL”

  FATHER OF MODERN UNDERTAKING

  &

  BREAKER OF NUMEROUS

  UNDERTAKING WORLD RECORDS

  PREPARED AND BURIED TWENTY-SIX CORPSES

  IN A SINGLE DAY—YET IN THE END,

  COULD NOT PREPARE HIMSELF

  “QUI SEPULTUS MORTUI NUNC SEPULTUS”

  Arthur had just read the last word of the closing epigram (which he might have understood to mean, literally: “Who Buried the Dead, Now Buried,” had he spent less time doing things like loitering in graveyards and more time studying his Latin, as his Dead Languages tutor, Dr. Verbabel, had instructed), when the cemetery gate screeched shut behind him. He whirled about—but saw no one.

  “Hello?” he called out to the darkness.

  There was no reply.

  Another standard option at the cemetery gate factory, he thought to himself. Always slam shut when you least expect it.

  His heart beating faster now, he slowly turned back to the monument, and—in the hopes of occupying his restless mind—began browsing the nearby headstones.

  This would prove to be a rather bad idea.

  Each tomb, he discovered, belonged to another notable or record-breaking undertaker. According to one monument, here lay Richard Bawkes, designer of the World’s Most Expensive Coffin; according to another, this was the eternal resting place of Mortimer Curtens, director of the World’s Largest Private Non-Mafia Family Funeral. As Arthur went from one grim record holder to the next, his morbid curiosity quickly got the better of him—and before he knew it, he had wandered deep into the graveyard.

  At the tomb of Gideon Balmer, who had achieved the Shortest Time after Death to Prepare and Bury a Single Corpse, Arthur began to wonder again at the sort of person who would choose this for a meeting place. Not only was it a graveyard—it had to be the Creepiest Graveyard on the Planet. Top ten, at the very least.

  By the time he’d arrived at the gravestone for Jules Drayner, holder of the record for Most Blood Collected from Exsanguinated Corpses in One Year, Arthur’s morbid curiosity had turned to genuine disgust.

  Just then, a nearby rustling noise whirled him around a second time.

  “Hello?” he called.

  Again, there came no answer. Holding his breath, he crept toward the noise.

  As he slowly peered around a shovel-shaped grave marker, the source of the noise was revealed, though it took Arthur a moment to discern precisely what it was he was looking at. Two dark shapes shuffled atop the lichen-covered tombstone before him. One of them proved to be a malformed, greasy-feathered raven, the other, a large black rat—and they appeared to be fighting over something. But what exactly was it? Chalky and slender and—Ah yes, of course: a human finger bone.

  Suddenly queasy, Arthur was struck by an overwhelming urge to leave the Undertakers’ Graveyard as soon as possible—at any cost.

  Turning away from the battling vermin, he dashed off in what he believed to be the direction of the entrance, scrambling past crooked headstones and crumbling tombs.

  He had not traveled ten yards when a low voice stopped him dead in his tracks.

  “Thou canst not escape death,” it bellowed. “Why dost thou flee?”

  Arthur’s blood turned to ice. His eyes darted to and fro. It seemed the voice was in fact emanating from the decrepit headstone in front of him.

  The boy closed his eyes in terror. “I—I would like to leave now,” he stammered.

  “But thou hast not completed thy task.”

  “I—I’m sorry,” Arthur pleaded, “but what task do you mean exactly—um, sir?”

  “That thou shouldst pass not twixt yon gates, ere thou speak’st with that selfsame soul who bade thee journey hither….”

  Arthur opened his mouth to reply, then stopped short.

  “Wait. What was that now?”

  “Blast,” cursed the voice. “What I mean to say is—you really can’t leave before you talk to the person you came here to meet. Sorry about that. Graveyard voice. Force of habit.”

  “What?” cried Arthur.

  At that moment, a tiny figure stepped out from behind the gravestone.

  A rush of horror gripped Arthur as he realized: it was a dwarf.

  “Ahh!” the boy shrieked—then swung his butterfly net at the dwarf’s head and bolted in the opposite direction.

  Before he could make his escape, however, Arthur’s toe caught on the corner of an unearthed coffin lid—and he was sent crashing to the ground, barely six feet away.

  Fumbling for his lantern, Arthur rolled onto his back and began scouring the shadows for the dwarf’s giant companion. He knew he had but a moment before the towering brute emerged and came forth to destroy him.

  And yet, as the boy lay clutching his lantern, paralyzed with fright, no such person appeared.

  “Ow!” cried the dwarf, stumbling forward as he rubbed the side of his head.

  “D-don’t come any closer!” Arthur warned, brandishing his butterfly net. “I haven’t forgotten how to use this!”

  “Argh,” the little man groaned, feeling his scalp for a lump. “Why’d you do that?”

  In the lantern’s light, Arthur examined his tiny adversary. Dressed in a dark suit with an ascot tie, he had tan skin and thick, silvery hair. The boy couldn’t quite place it, but he felt as though he had seen the man’s face before.

  “I’m—I’m sorry if I hurt you, sir,” Arthur said cautiously. “I—I thought you were the dwarf who’s been terrorizing my family. Well, I mean—are you the dwarf who’s been terrorizing my family?”

  “I should’ve known,” sighed the dwarf, shaking his head. “Seems our dear co-presidents were right about something for once in their lives: you really could use some exceptional-size sensitivity training.”

  “Wait,” said Arthur. “Co-presidents? As in Stuart and Brian? Of the GGDG?” It was then Arthur remembered the tan-faced, silver-haired, deep-voiced dwarf standing on his chair in the GGDG boardroom, being rebuked by the tiny co-president. “Hang on,” he blurted, “you’re—”

  “Thornton Lowe—at your service,” said the dwarf, and, stepping forward, offered the boy his hand.

  Arthur promptly accepted it and, with a bit of huffing and puffing on both their parts, staggered to his feet. “Thank you, Mr. Lowe,” said the boy. “Now, um, just to be clear—and I’m sorry if I’m showing poor exceptional-size sensitivity here, but I can’t help but feel I’ve had run-ins with an extraordinary number of dwarves lately, and I’m just a bit confused. So, anyhow—you’re sure you’re not trying to harm my family in any way?”

  “Quite the contrary,” replied the dwarf, rubbing his head again. “I thought I was clear about that on the telephone.”

  “Yes, I guess you were,” Arthur nodded. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Lowe. I really am sorry about the head. Afraid it’s got me a little on edge, this place. I mean, honestly—what ever made you want to meet here?”

  Mr. Lowe’s brow wrinkled. “What exactly are you trying to say? That you don’t like the Undertakers’ Graveyard? Now, I might be able to forgive the unprovoked brutality, but if you think I’ll let you insult this sacred ground, well, then you are sorely—”

&nbs
p; “Oh no, no—it’s not that,” Arthur lied. “It’s lovely, really, the graveyard. I just, um, wondered if you might have a particular connection to it or something—that’s all.”

  “Oh. Hmm,” said the dwarf, his expression softening. “Well, yes—as a matter of fact I do. You see, apart from serving on the board of the GGDG, I happen to be director of Lowe and Sons Funeral Company. Started by my great-great-great grandfather, Obediah Digby Lowe—Dr. Doornail himself. Perhaps you saw his statue?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Arthur nodded. “I knew that name sounded familiar.”

  “Yep,” Mr. Lowe continued. “Always been one of my favorite places, this. All the greats are laid here. Philip Valtz. Justin Hume. Solomon Kroker. They just don’t bury ’em like they used to, do they?”

  “I guess not,” shrugged the boy.

  “Nope. Come here whenever I get the chance, just to clear my head—and commune with the icons of undertaking’s past. You’re lucky you live so close; you can visit anytime you like! I’d move out here in a heartbeat, myself—but there just aren’t enough people dying in the countryside, I’m afraid. Nope—apart from a lucky outbreak of swine flu here and there—it’s much better for business in the city.”

  “Hmm,” said Arthur, his queasiness returning slightly. “Makes sense, I guess…. But, um, well—what was it you called me here to tell me? Something about the Cake Catastrophe case, was it?”

  “Oh, right—of course,” Mr. Lowe chuckled. “Get me talking about undertaking, and I’ll rattle on for days. But we’ve got graver matters to discuss, haven’t we?”

  A devilish grin formed across the dwarf’s lips.

  “We have?” Arthur gulped.

  Mr. Lowe nodded. “So, let’s see here. Where to begin? Ah yes. The election. As you may have deduced from your little visit to the GGDG, I recently ran for the office of co-president, against Brian Carmine, the dwarf you had the pleasure of meeting yesterday, along with his giant crony, Stuart Fisch. Pleasant chap, that Carmine—wouldn’t you say?”

  “No,” said Arthur. “I don’t think I would.”

  “Well, that’s only because he’s a snidey, self-important little tapeworm. But we shouldn’t hold that against him, should we?”

  “Hmm,” said Arthur. “I take it you don’t like him very much.”

  “Like him? Oh, I like him all right—as a potential customer for Lowe and Sons. Why, there’s nobody I’d like to work with more. Indeed, I would consider it my honor, and a boon to the whole exceptional-size community—as well as every other community—to get him behind my doors. A couple of tyrants, Carmine and Fisch. Silence anybody who speaks out against them or tries to paint any of our members in a less than favorable light. Why, with his ties to the Dwarven Brotherhood, Carmine’s really nothing more than a gangster with a gavel. Constantly having me followed by his criminal cronies to make sure I don’t speak out of turn. Good thing I managed to give them the slip tonight. They’d no doubt beat us both to a bloody pulp for what I’m about to tell you….”

  Up until that moment, Arthur had been feeling fairly comfortable with his present situation, despite the grim surroundings—but now all of his prior uneasiness came rushing back. “They would?” he said, his eyes unconsciously searching the shadows again.

  “Oh, most definitely,” Mr. Lowe nodded casually. “Now where was I? Ah yes. The election. Right. So, anyway—on the night I was outvoted by that no-good cockroach, I took myself off to the Mountain and Molehill, the local dwarf/giant tavern, to drown my sorrows. Must have been the day after your family’s Cake Catastrophe, because it was all over the news that night. Whipple Chef Bakes Birthday Bomb, they were all saying. So, there I am, minding my own business, trying to forget I’d just lost the vote to a talking termite, and the dwarf at the table next to me tries to strike up a conversation. Clearly had one too many, this fellow—and by one too many, I mean: one drink total. Doesn’t take much for us little folk, you understand. Honestly, if it weren’t for the giants, the Mountain and Molehill would barely break even. But anyhow, he leans over to me and says, ‘Funny about that exploding birthday cake, isn’t it, friend?’ Now, as I’ve mentioned, I was in a bit of a bad temper, so I reply, ‘How should I know? I wasn’t there.’ ‘Ah,’ he says, ‘but I was.’ ‘Were you?’ I say. ‘Are you a friend of the Whipples, then?’ ‘Friend?’ he scoffs. ‘To those simpletons? Hardly. No, no—my associate and I attended as part of the, um, entertainment.’ At this, he gestures to the corner behind him and the huge giant seated there in the shadows, who I had previously failed to notice. ‘Say no more,’ I reply. ‘It’s our lot in life, us exceptional sizes. Never invited anywhere unless it’s to be put onstage and gawked at, are we?’ ‘Oh no,’ he says. ‘I assure you, friend—it was us running the show this time. Why, with only a few simple improvements to that silly family’s birthday cake, we orchestrated the main attraction itself. And though we may have been dressed as clowns, it was us doing the gawking—at all those screaming fools running for their lives.’ Now at this point, the drink is really doing its work on me, and I can hardly follow him. ‘What was that now?’ I say. ‘I don’t quite understand. Do you mean you were on the Whipple party-planning committee or something?’ At this, he gets rather snippy and says, ‘What I mean is: we blew up the Whipple birthday cake. But don’t think you’ll ever read about us in the papers; we’ve already succeeded in stitching up the Whipples’ poor half-witted chef—so we’ll never be blamed for any of it.’ By this time, I’ve had about enough. ‘Goodness,’ I say. ‘And to think I’ve been seated next to a criminal mastermind all this time. Well, I’d best be off now. Good luck in all your future sabotage plots. Sounds like you’re off to a smashing start.’ And with that, I got up and left.”

  Arthur’s mouth hung open. He could scarcely believe all he had just heard. “And—and what happened next?” he spluttered. “Did you see where they went?”

  “No,” said the dwarf, shaking his head. “That was it. I went home, poured myself an ill-considered second drink and promptly passed out. I’ve been back to the Mountain and Molehill many times since, I’m sorry to say—but I’ve never seen those two again.”

  “Well,” said Arthur, “let’s see here: a giant and a dwarf, dressed as clowns, who claim to have blown up my family’s birthday cake, and pinned it on our chef. Yep. I’m pretty sure these are our guys. So, what exactly did they look like?”

  “Didn’t get much of a look, I’m afraid. Rather a minimalist lighting scheme they’ve got at the Mountain and Molehill.”

  “Hmm,” the boy sighed. “And you didn’t happen to catch either of their names?”

  “Afraid not. Really didn’t think much of it at the time—there’d been no mention of a dwarf or a giant even being suspected in the Whipple Cake Catastrophe. Seemed he was just after a bit of attention, this fellow—and, well, the way we dwarves get treated by you average sizes, I could hardly blame him, could I? But when you and your friends came sniffing about the GGDG office yesterday, looking for a dwarf and a giant in connection with your family’s recent mishaps, it struck me this fellow might have been telling the truth—and my conscience would no longer allow me to remain silent…. Not to mention I’d give anything just to see that worm, Carmine, squirm a bit. If he wants to be co-president, let him deal with the public outrage when two of our members are charged with sabotage and attempted murder!”

  “Ah,” said Arthur with a nod. “Well, you know, whatever the reason, I’m really glad you came forward with this. Although, if what you say is true about Mr. Carmine, aren’t you worried he might have you—well, you know—silenced?”

  “Ha!” snapped Mr. Lowe. “Let him try it! We undertakers don’t scare so easily. What’s the worst he can do—kill me? Death is how I make my living; I don’t fear death—I welcome it….”

  There was a sudden howl of wind, followed by what sounded like the eerie cry of some nearby nocturnal creature, and Arthur couldn’t stop his spine from tingling.

  He was just
about to chalk it up to some deluxe add-on feature from the cemetery gate factory, when he looked up at the towering stone monument to his right—and saw the call’s actual source.

  There, leaning over the column’s top edge, two tiny human faces looked down at him, while a pair of hefty wooden mallets glinted beside them in the moonlight.

  Arthur hardly had time to yell “Look out!” before the two dwarves had leapt from their perch and were flying at the boy and the undertaker with weapons raised.

  In a fit of terror, Arthur dropped his lantern and gripped his butterfly net at both ends, just in time to block the first dwarf’s hammer—which was nearly as long as its wielder was tall. Funny as the pairing appeared, however, the crushing force of the dwarf’s blow was no laughing matter.

  “Mr. Carmine says hello!” the second dwarf cried as he swung his mallet at Mr. Lowe.

  The little undertaker dodged to one side, causing his attacker to overextend himself.

  “Send him my regards!” Mr. Lowe cried back, and on the last syllable, punched the man in the mouth before he could raise his mallet again.

  Seeing his partner hurt, the first dwarf turned back to Arthur with a menacing snarl.

  Similar to his partner’s, the dwarf’s thick, tattooed arms, rolled-sleeved shirt, and greasy dungarees suggested a rough career in either the circus or rail industries, or possibly in the circus rail industry. Incidentally, it was the workers from precisely these three industries whom Arthur would have last chosen to face in hand-to-hand combat.

  His first block had been lucky—but the boy was no match for such a hard-bitten opponent.

  “This ain’t your fight, boy,” growled the dwarf. “No need for you to get hurt too bad—if you just stay down….” With that, he pressed the top of his mallet into Arthur’s chest and shoved the boy backward.