The 58th Keeper

by R. G. Bullet

  Archy’s school report arrived by the end of the third week of his vacation. Winnie cornered him in the kitchen just as she was going out to the supermarket. She had put her makeup on hastily so her cheeks looked powdery, and she never seemed to notice that her red lipstick stuck to her front teeth.

  “You’re going to have to try a lot harder, Archy. I didn’t send you to this school for fun,” she said, rifling the contents of a large shoulder bag. She finally brandished a well-thumbed paperback and turned to a page halfway through. “You’ll have to forgive and forget to get past your complexities with Mr. Elms.” Archy caught a glimpse of the title written in bold, blue letters: Look before You Leap, Change before You Weep, By Dr. Henry Bloomenwinkler MA, Ph.D. He let out a slow, deep sigh.

  “I am sure he is a very nice man underneath, and if you opened up your Chakras you could accept his positive attributes and ignore his negative ones. Everything is yin and yang, hmm?” She peered at him above her reading glasses.

  She went on, firing meaningless words at him as his mind drifted to the rugby field. He imagined Mr. Elms had the ball and was running, a dark-jacketed suit flapping like the wings of a raven. Archy spotted him from the sidelines and ran to execute a knee-breaking tackle, bringing him down hard into the muddy…

  “…so with positive thoughts and willingness to change and forget, we can all triumph with a win-win…” He picked up the tail end of her words.

  Winnie had a point, he had to admit. He desperately wanted to forget Mr. Elms and he also positively detested him.

  “Winnie, I’ll try. Mr. Elms is a bald leader... er... bold—bold leader,” said Archy, stifling the urge to laugh.

  “I don’t think it’s funny, Archy! Do you think you can idle through this school? NO! Don’t you dare lose this scholarship.” She dug into her bag again and thrust another book at him: Accountability for the Child Within. “You’re going to be studying this after your chores and I’ll test you on it. If I’m not happy there’ll be no television for a week.”

  “But you don’t let me watch television anyway,” he said.

  “That’s not the point,” she said tersely. “Get to work!”

  ***

  Every day fused into the next without much difference and it had been like this since Winnie had come into his life.

  Archy’s day kicked off at six. He had to herd the dogs out of the kennels and into the garden. Then he had to rush back upstairs to clean and re-line the floor with newspaper for all the dogs with special needs. For the rest of the morning he had to be ready by the phone, waiting to respond to the ads Winnie placed for puppies and grooming.

  He knew early on, while observing Winnie eagerly count out his grant money, that he was a means to an end. Her dogs always took priority. She gave him one day off a month during the vacations and that day was always under threat of being taken away.

  They lived in the middle of a long row of terraced houses about an hour-and-a-half drive from central London. The gardens were a stretch of grass no longer than a bowling alley and about as wide. Out back were the kennels, where Archy spent most of the day.

  On a Saturday, around dusk, while the gnats swarmed around Archy’s head, he saw Winnie open the window on the second floor. “ARCHIBALD! PHONE!” she yelled across the garden. “And tell whoever it is to call earlier in the day. I’m med-ee-tating, med-eee-TATING!” she said, flicking a cigarette into the neighbor’s yard.

  Archy never got personal calls and so he burst in through the kitchen door, scattering small dogs in every direction.

  “Hello?”

  “Bowl head!”

  “Vincent! What’s going on?”

  “Lots, listen, Archy. My dad—” He lowered his voice. “My dad’s going to send my brother, Richard and his friend to Turkey so they can study a dig going on down there.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, I know… archaeology! Anyway, listen, he wants me and George to go too and he asked me who I want to bring along. I said you!”

  “You’re joking!”

  “You’d have to pay for food and other stuff but the flight’s on Dad!”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Say yes and it’s paid for. We’re leaving next Sunday. You can go, right? Say yes and we can get the ticket for you.”

  Archy shut his eyes and took a deep breath.

  “No, don’t start that, Archy, I can hear you.”

  He exhaled immediately. “Winnie isn’t going to let me go, Vincent.”

  Course she is. You’ll find a way, Archy. I’ll call you tomorrow when my dad comes back. He’ll talk to her. I gotta go. Richard’s taking me to the army surplus place to get some camping gear.”

  Archy was bursting with joy. Turkey! He ran upstairs after his chores to check where it was on a world map. He sat in his room, happy for a while but then started to doubt if it would ever happen. He turned sadder by the minute and convinced himself that Winnie was never going to let him go.

  Chapter 3

  Gateway to the East

  Archy had been instructed to answer all the phone calls with the same fake joy every time. The very sound of his own voice grated on him. “Princess Kennels, may I help you?” So when his tone changed on Sunday Winnie noticed immediately. She cocked her head to listen. A moment passed and Archy began to laugh. “Are you serious?” he blurted.

  “For the love of—who is it?” snapped Winnie.

  “Hang on a sec. Winnie—Vincent’s dad is taking him and his brothers to Turkey for a week and has a spare ticket. He wants to speak to you to see if you’ll let me go too.”

  “Who on earth does he think he is? Doesn’t he know that’s ridiculous?”

  Archy held the receiver out to her with wide eyes and drew a deep breath. The next minutes were like magic. Winnie’s icy temperament seemed to melt before him.

  “Yes, of course—how wonderful. Yes, that would be very nice—” Even a laugh squeaked out of her, and by the end of the conversation she was left positively bubbly. “Yes, I’ll make sure he’s ready. Well, bye-bye then, Mr. Maynard-Bull, and thank you, thank you for the call.”

  She handed the phone back, and Archy let out his breath. He could hear Vincent shouting “Yesss!” on the other end of the phone. It was the first time he had ever felt like almost, very nearly, kissing Winnie.

  ***

  On the morning of departure he was up early, set to leave. He paced back and forth and peered out of the window at every passing car. He continually checked his watch. Where are they? Maybe they forgot. I just knew it! He began to worry. Just then a tatty looking transit van pulled up in front of the house, backfired as loud as a shotgun and stalled. All the dogs in the vicinity barked in unison and the neighbors began peeking out.

  Hanging out the passenger window Vincent only added to the din. “HEY, Archy! Get your gear!” he called.

  Relieved, Archy grabbed his scruffy backpack and barreled down the stairs, skimming past Winnie, who leaned out of the doorway. “Not exactly what I thought they’d be driving,” she said skeptically. She handed him his meager allowance, and as he reached for it she pulled it back and then did it again just to tease him. But neither Winnie nor the foggy, dark morning dampened Archy’s spirits. He felt as if he’d pop with excitement as he climbed in through the van’s side door.

  Vincent hopped over the front seat and poked him in his ribs. “You’ve escaped,” he said. “Well done. This is my brother, Richard!” He pointed to a figure wedged under the steering wheel. He was thin, with long, frizzy hair, and scruffy clothes.

  Richard looked up briefly, with strips of wiring between his teeth and a screwdriver in his hand. “Watcha!” he said. “Got any duct tape on you?”

  “Hi!” said Archy. “No, sorry—”

  Richard’s friend from his university was sprawled over a mattress at the back. He gave off a musty smell and Vincent simply introduced him as Ward. Ward grunted a greeting at Archy from under an unruly beard that looked like it was speck
led with flakes of pastry.

  “I thought you said there’d be five of us,” said Archy, offering them an open bag of dog treats.

  “George,” said Vincent, shooting a look at Richard as he took a handful of treats, “is traveling with Dad—says we reek.”

  Vincent mentioned that his father never traveled with them and that they should always find their own way—“all except George,” he added rather sourly. After touching the wires together and re-starting the engine Richard drove off erratically, swerving several times for no apparent reason other than to make them bounce around. After an hour or so of the worst driving Archy had ever experienced, they pulled into the parking lot of the international terminal at Heathrow.

  Archy had never been to an airport before and loved the excitement and jostle of the place. But once he got on the airplane he became nervous. How could it possibly fly? There were too many people, and then there was luggage that had been shoved into the plane’s belly. How could it lift with all that weight? None of it made sense. He sat stiffly, gripping the arm rests, and was the only person to watch every detail of the safety procedure. He breathed deeply and tried to relax. He strapped himself in, double-checked his seat position and listened in quiet horror as the engines roared, ready for takeoff. When the force thrust him back into his seat, he let out a yelp that he tried to turn into a cough. But it didn’t fool anyone. As the plane hurtled down the runway, someone grabbed his shoulder. Archy spun around to see Ward behind him pointing to something through the small window, his beard blocking most of the view.

  “There’s something wrong—” He shot a look of horror in Archy’s direction. “There’s not enough runway! Look out!”

  Archy’s seat belt was so tight he couldn’t stretch far enough to see out the window. He snapped his arms around his ears and tucked his head between his knees, drew a deep breath and began to count.

  “Any second noooww—” Ward yelled, rocking on Archy’s seat back.

  The plane took off as smooth as butter and moments later Archy heard Richard and Ward laughing till they wheezed and coughed. When he looked up he saw that even some of the other passengers had smiles on their faces.

  “Ward’s such an armpit,” said Vincent, getting up a while later. “Come on, let’s walk around—it’ll help.”

  “Do you think we should?” said Archy. “I mean, wouldn’t it be safer it we just stayed here and, you know, kept our seat belts on?”

  Ward stuck his head through the gap between the seats. “No need for seat belts or life jackets because when we hit anything at seven hundred miles an hour it’s game over, man. Lights out, adios, final curtain, meet your ancestors, not even time to poop your panties. They’ll be finding your teeth scattered over a five-mile radius.”

  Archy leapt up and followed Vincent to the back of the plane, wobbling along the way. They loitered in the aisle watching the flight attendants prepare lunch and when they both started getting in the way, were asked to return to their seats, where they waited until the attendant handed them plastic trays.

  Archy peeled back the tin foil, taking a long whiff. “That smells great,” he said.

  Ward tried to convince Archy that if he survived the landing then the food poisoning would get to him before the end of the week. But the plane landed safely in Istanbul. Archy and Vincent pushed their way out through the line of passengers and stepped into the sunlight. A heavy wave of heat blanketed them.

  “That’s got to be from the engines, right?” said Archy.

  “No, Archy, it’s normal temperature for Turkey this time of the year,” said Vincent. “Isn’t it great?”

  Outside the airport everyone got into a dolmus, a big car that looked like it was taken out of the American black and white films that Winnie watched. It had a big curvy hood and lots of trinkets hanging from the rear-view mirror. Richard and Ward hoisted the luggage onto the roof and they all crammed into the back, sharing it with two other people, one of whom clutched a box of brass lanterns.

  He watched in fascination as the driver navigated through the bustling city, cursing out of the window the entire way. They passed the fabulous Blue Mosque with its spiraling towers, along the banks of the Bosporus Strait, where he saw boys running and diving head first into the water. And then they drove along the sides of a vast building.

  “Ottoman Palace,” said the taxi driver as if on cue.

  When they pulled up to a traffic light, the first one the driver had actually stopped at since the airport, Archy heard a haunting wail coming from all directions. He stuck his head out of the window. The noise sounded like it was coming out of speakers. Archy caught Richard peering down at him through the rearview mirror.

  “Prayer time, Archy—you’re in Istanbul, gateway to the east,” he said, putting on a mysterious voice.

  Half an hour later they stopped at the outskirts of the city where Richard hired a van. It didn’t seem like the best place to rent vehicles, but with only a very limited budget from his father it would have to do. The four of them waited until a young man drove a rickety camper around to the front of the place. It stood idling and misfiring, as if it hadn’t been tuned in years. Its wheel arches had Turkish slogans painted in large lime-green letters down both sides. When Richard asked what it meant, the agent behind the rental desk merely waved his hands dismissively saying, “it’s nothing—” and hurried Richard to fill out the forms.

  “Sign here and here and be careful not to be breaking it,” he warned.

  The plan Richard and Ward figured out was to drive down to the dig site in Bodrum on the southwestern coast of Turkey. Richard wanted to stop by Mount Ararat, where Noah’s Ark was supposed to have landed, but the rental agent explained, rather sarcastically, that it was hundreds of miles to the north and “all our shiny new helicopters were all rented out,” because that’s what they would need to get anywhere near it.

  Archy and Vincent made a comfortable place on top of the luggage at the back of the van and they started on the trip. How they managed to keep the van in one piece Archy would never know. They spent hours rattling over winding roads and through rural villages. When Ward took over the driving things got even worse and he’d shout, “Got it!” each and every time he hit a pothole.

  Finally, when none of them could take any more, Richard pulled over near a tomato farm. They took two large cases out and put them on the roof and overnight camped inside the van. They rested fitfully. After an early start they drove nonstop until they arrived at around dusk at the dusty campsite of the Ataturk Amphitheater Dig, Bodrum.

  The site was set a little way back from the beach and cordoned off from the public with a wire mesh fence. Richard drove slowly for the first time and Archy could see the whole area, which was parched and looked like it hadn’t rained in years. Richard parked the van near a makeshift office and they burst from all doors, desperate to get out and breathe fresh air.

  A man came over to greet them. He had thinning gray hair and a bushy mustache. A small white apron was flapping around his middle.

  “Hi, Professor Sidley,” said Richard, wiping sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

  “Hello, Richard. The Maynard-Bull party, welcome, welcome,” the professor said enthusiastically. “Glad you made it. Now, I’ve reserved your tent positions over there, and there.” He pointed to the other side of the dig, to spaces made between the other tents and a single windswept olive tree. The tents sat around the circumference of a sunken amphitheater and in the middle of it were numerous awnings and tarpaulins stretched over a system of wooden walkways.

  “You can start work whenever you’re ready.” Professor Sidley continued.

  “Reckon we’ll start at dawn,” said Richard, looking up at the sun.

  “Yup,” said Ward. “Dawn—”

  “Of course, of course. Do as you please today,” said Professor Sidley, clasping his hands together, “…very happy to have you all here.”

  Archy and Vincent’s designated tent space was
in the middle of a group of students from Germany. When they finished hammering the poles into the dry earth and finally erecting their tent they helped Richard and Ward with theirs. It took a couple of hours to get it all completed and the ropes tied securely.

  Richard’s tent was large and had a separate section for sleeping and a medium-sized section for cooking. The tent Archy and Vincent shared was old and smaller but it was big enough to move around in and they were happy with it.

  Anything separate was better—anything away from Ward’s socks.

  Archy had just come back from exploring the campground with Vincent and was setting out his bed when a head stuck through the flaps and startled him. It was exactly the same face on the magazine he’d seen in school.

  “Hello, boys!”

  “Dad!” said Vincent, “you’re here. This is Archy.”

  “Hello, Mr. Maynard-Bull. I want to thank you again for the holiday,” said Archy as they shook hands.

  “Don’t mention it—broadens the horizons.” He stood at the unzipped opening. He shot a stern look at the mound of clothes on Vincent’s bed, which did the trick. Vincent promptly started folding and putting it all away.

  “Now, Archy, what are you good at?”

  “Um...”

  “What’s your forte?”

  Archy looked over at Vincent. “My what, sorry?”

  “Your strengths, you must be good at something.” Vincent attempted to utter an explanation but his father disturbed him by stepping inside their tent, wearing a matching flowery shirt and swimming trunks. A breeze wafted cigar smoke and aftershave around them.

  “I’m not very good at anything—really,” mumbled Archy.

  “Nonsense!” Mr. Maynard-Bull waved the words away. “I’ve just given these to all my employees at AMBTronics—it’s a psychological test. Helps you figure out what you’re good at. Richard’s tent is doing theirs right now—here.” He thrust two clipboards at Vincent. “You’re cooking tomorrow, Vincent. Right?”