by Sean Cullen
Hamish X was aghast. “What are you talking about?”
Liam held up a shaking hand. “I was once a prisoner of the ODA. They did experiments on me, trying to alter the functions of my body, my muscles and nervous system. I was a guinea pig in the project that eventually produced you.”
“You were their prisoner?”
“Yes. Fortunately, I was rescued in a raid by King Juan’s Guards. He was my predecessor. I was rescued and brought here. My body was damaged beyond repair. As a result, I was forced to develop my mind. When Juan left, he made me King.” Liam smiled. “I’ve enjoyed my reign. I’ve tried to do good, but I must admit, I’d hoped we could find out some way of fixing the damage wrought by the ODA through careful study of you. Selfish, wasn’t it?”
“That’s not selfish,” Hamish X said. “It’s human.”
King Liam smiled. “The ODA have altered you in many ways, but they neglected to tamper with the one thing that will bring them the most grief: you have a kind heart, Hamish X.”
The King clapped his hands. The George raccoon scurried over with a manila envelope. It handed the envelope to Liam.
“Thank you, George,” the King said, holding the envelope against his chest. He turned back to Hamish X. “I haven’t spoken to you sooner for two reasons. I wanted you to have some time to adjust to the boots and grow to understand that you are free. The second reason is that I have been sending my agents out searching for information on you. I wanted to help you figure out who you really are. I have compiled everything we could find that is pertinent to your identity. Here it is.”
He handed over the envelope. Hamish X took it and tore open the top with greedy fingers. He tipped the envelope over and his heart sank when all that came out was a single black and white photograph, a scrap of paper, and a small key.
Hamish X couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. An exhaustive search and this was the result? He held up the picture. Staring back at him was the face of the Professor, bringing back the terrible memories of the Grey Agents and the procedure that had grafted his boots onto him. The eyes were fearful and the man seemed older, his face drawn and haggard. He was photographed from a distance and was obviously unaware of being observed. In his hand he carried a small suitcase and he was stepping down from a small plane onto the tarmac of an airport. The photographer had caught him in the act of looking over his shoulder. The eyes were watery and wide behind thick bifocals.
“It’s the man from my memories! He was there in the operating room when the Grey Agents put the boots on me.”
“His name is Professor Magnus Ballantyne-Stewart.”
Hamish X’s eyes went wide. “The man who wrote my book!”
“Exactly. He was a brilliant genetic engineer and neurologist before he was contracted by the Grey Agents. Supposedly he died in a car crash, but we believe he staged his death to escape the ODA. He is now in Central Africa under an assumed name, providing medical care for remote villages.”
“I have to find him. He might know something about who I am.”
“I agree.”
Hamish X fell silent. He held up his hand, turning it back and forth, examining it.
“What’s the matter?” King Liam asked.
“It’s funny. I don’t know how to feel about all this. At first, the only question I had was ‘Who am I?’ Now, it’s ‘What am I?’ Am I even human?”
“Hamish X, have you ever heard the story of Pinocchio?”
“No.”
“Pinocchio is a wooden boy who wants to be a real boy. He goes into the world and has many adventures, but in the end he returns home and discovers that it’s love that has transformed him into a real child. You are going through something similar, I think, but in reverse. You thought you were a real boy but you’ve discovered that you are not. I think the lesson you have to learn is that it isn’t the parts and pieces, the muscle and tissue, the blood and bone that makes you human. No,” the King smiled. “It’s what’s in the heart that makes us real people. And you, my friend, are as real as can be.”
They sat in silence for a minute or two. At last, Hamish X held up the slip of paper. There was a four-digit number written on it. “What’s this?”
“It is the number for a locker in the Athens train station. The key opens the locker. There you will find some money and the documentation you need to make your way to Central Africa and seek him out.”
Hamish X looked up from the photograph into Liam’s eyes. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
The King shook his head. “You don’t need to thank me. Just find out what you need to know. Hopefully, with that knowledge, you can stand against the ODA and bring us one step closer to defeating them.”
“When should I go?” Hamish X asked.
“I wouldn’t waste any time. Whatever the ODA have planned it must be happening soon or they wouldn’t be so desperate to get you back. I think you should go tonight after the wedding.”
“But the others … Mimi and Parveen … If I tell them I’m going, they’ll want to come along. I won’t be able to stop them.” Hamish X frowned. “They seem so happy here. They’ve found a home. I wouldn’t want them to give that up.”
“Slip out secretly during the reception. George will show you the way. I’ll explain everything to Mimi and Parveen once you are well gone. Now hurry! Shower and get ready for the wedding. You don’t have much time.”
Hamish X stood up and slid the picture carefully into the envelope. He began to walk away but stopped, turning slowly to face the King. “Why do you trust me not to tell anyone where you are? The ODA could capture me and find out the location of the Hollow Mountain.”
“If they capture you, Hamish X,” King Liam smiled sadly, “it won’t matter any more.”
Hamish X thought about that for a moment, then turned and went through the door to the locker room.
“Well, George,” the King said softly to the raccoon standing quietly to one side. “I’ve done what I can. It’s up to him now.”
“Indeed, Majesty. Shall I ready your dress tunic?”
“Yes, please, George.”
Mr. Candy and Mr. Sweet
Mr. Candy and Mr. Sweet stood in the rain, water dripping from their grey fedoras. They had been very busy in the two weeks since they lost Hamish X’s trail in the Swiss Alps. After exhausting every search method they could muster, from satellite photography to deep sonar to orbital heat scans, they had concluded that the King of Switzerland’s hidden refuge could not be located by any practical means at their disposal. They had decided to attack the problem in a different way. When confronted with a puzzle, they always looked for the weakest link in the chain. And to the ODA, it was the human element that invariably represented the weakest link in any chain.
The problem they faced was that the Kings and Queens of Switzerland commanded incredible loyalty from their subjects. No former resident of the Hollow Mountain would willingly betray the haven’s secret location. All the orphans helped by the King earned his undying gratitude. They were trained and educated, and given a nest egg that could start them in their new life. A history was fabricated for them that covered their tracks and kept the King’s involvement in their lives hidden.
Loyalty alone was a strong motivator, but the Kings and Queens of Switzerland had learned that loyalty was no match for a determined interrogator. Besides, even the most loyal person can let a stray fact slip by accident, and with disastrous consequences. To defend against these dangers, the Kings and Queens had engaged in extensive experiments involving memory suppression through hypnosis and subconscious sleep teaching. When orphans left the Hollow Mountain they underwent a week of deep hypnosis to suppress their memories of their time there and to implant their false history. Over the centuries the process had become quite effective. No one had ever betrayed the location of the Hollow Mountain.
The Grey Agents knew that the refuge was called the Hollow Mountain by listening to the whispering of the orphans they had t
raded in down through the years. They had never managed to glean its precise location. Mr. Candy and Mr. Sweet knew they had to find and break one of the King’s former subjects, and so they had instructed Mother to search all the online databases it could hack into and find an orphan whose background might not add up. The resulting candidates were compiled into a long list and weeded out, until at last the Grey Agents focused on one person in particular. The search had eaten up quite a chunk of their precious time, but finally they were ready. They had their weak link.
That is why they stood on a cobbled 51 street in the Swiss city of Bern. The sky was heavy, with roiling black clouds spilling their contents on the city with a vengeance. The shop fronts were time-worn and respectable. They were in the oldest part of the city, near the cathedral, or Munster,52 as the locals called it. Its steeple rose over the red-tiled roofs of the ancient buildings, silent and tall like a stone finger.
In the daytime the old quarter was host to an open-air market of crafts and farmers’ wares, but at that late hour there was no one about. The empty stalls stood silent and dripping with rain and the arcades53 were deserted. The pedestrians54 had long since gone home with their purchases, leaving the streets to less savoury types.
Mr. Sweet and Mr. Candy were definitely of the less savoury variety.55
The two Grey Agents stood dripping before a shop with the gilded sign REICHARD FULCHER’S CONFECTIONS AN D CHOCOLATES. The large front window was covered with a metal shutter. The awning that usually shaded the window was wound back into the wall. The door was shut and a sign saying “closed” hung in plain view. Light seeped out from under the door, though, denoting that someone was inside.56
Mr. Sweet turned to watch the street as Mr. Candy glided forward. He took hold of the doorknob. His overlong fingers clamped tight on the cold brass. The agent squeezed and twisted hard. A squeak of tortured metal was muffled by the drumming rain. With a soft snap, the lock shattered. Mr. Candy nodded to Mr. Sweet and opened the door. They quickly ducked inside and closed the door behind them.
Inside, the shop was a wonderland of chocolate. Shelves covered every wall and every shelf was itself covered with some form of delicious chocolate confection. Wrapped in beautifully coloured foil were bars of chocolate in multiple flavours: butter cream, caramel-filled, nougat, cherry, peanut butter. A long glass counter ran across the entire shop. Inside, trays and trays of individual chocolates lay arranged in perfect rows. The person who had created these displays was obviously someone who loved chocolate, and who had raised the craft of chocolate-making to an art form.
The artistry was most brilliantly displayed in the window. When the shutters were raised people outside could see the most incredible sight: dioramas made entirely out of sweets. There was a chocolate castle built of tiny chocolate bricks with candy soldiers defending its ramparts against a vast dragon of spun sugar breathing clouds of candy floss. A chocolate waterfall fed the moat, a rippling stream of pure dark chocolate in which marzipan crocodiles floated, their candy eyes glaring. A village of gingerbread houses nestled at the foot of the chocolate hill below the castle, roofs constructed of hundreds and thousands of tiny chocolate tiles. Cotton-candy sheep grazed, herded by tiny chocolate shepherds. It was truly a candy masterpiece. Any human being with a soul would have been moved by the attention to detail and the palpable love poured into the display.
Of course, Mr. Candy and Mr. Sweet had no souls to speak of. Ironically, though they were named Sweet and Candy, they were unmoved in the presence of their namesakes.57 They stalked through the darkened shop in their agile yet awkward way, all pointy limbs and darting heads. They went around the glass counter towards a doorway hung with a red velvet curtain. At the curtain they stopped, cocking their heads to the side to listen. A golden light emanated beneath the curtain and they heard a man humming softly. They nodded to each other and ducked inside.
They found themselves in a workshop.
A long table sat in a pool of bright golden light. Over the table was a metal grid suspended by chains at its four corners. Dangling from the grid and within easy reach were tools of every description: drills, sanders, chisels, hammers of various sizes, pliers, and electric saws with strangely shaped blades.
The tools were amazing enough, but what was on the table itself was truly awe-inspiring. Hundreds of chocolate carvings in various states of completion stood silent in the golden light.
The surface of the table was taken up by an oval structure composed of a series of chocolate arches. The detail was breathtaking. Each brick was individually cut and fit into place. Tiny flags of spun sugar stood on tiny candystick poles all around the top of the walls. Contained within the walls, terraced seats contained hundreds and hundreds of tiny candy Roman citizens, each in a tiny toga made of white frosting.
Sitting with his back to the door was an old man. His white hair was neatly trimmed around the shiny bald spot on the top of his head. His shoulders were hunched. He wore a white linen jacket of the sort that a doctor might wear.
The agents glided across the floor until they stood at the old man’s elbows. So silent were they in their approach that the old man didn’t even notice they were there until they grabbed him by the elbows and lifted him from his stool. The old man dropped the chariot he had been working on. It shattered on the floor, sending a spray of chocolate fragments shooting across the room.
“Ach! What do you want? The shop is closed.”
Mr. Candy and Mr. Sweet held the man off the floor, his little legs kicking as he scrambled for purchase in the air. Finally, he ceased struggling and hung limp in the agents’ grip. He was terrified of the strange grey-coated men with their dripping hats and cold black eyes.
“You are Reichard Fulcher?” Mr. Sweet said.
The old man blinked, his eyes watery behind thick spectacles. Attached to one lens was a magnifying device, called an ocular, of the type that jewellers use for fine work. It had the effect of magnifying one of Reichard’s eyes grotesquely.
That didn’t bother the agents. They fixed their goggled eyes on the old man in a predatory fashion. He felt a desperate urge to run, but while his feet were out of contact with the earth, running was not an option.
“What is the meaning of this intrusion? I am a simple chocolate maker. Take what you want and get out. There is some money in the cashbox at the front counter.”
“We don’t want money. You know who we are, don’t you?”
Reichard was about to splutter a denial, when Mr. Candy slapped him across the face with the back of his hand. Reichard’s glasses were knocked askew to dangle by one arm from his left ear. The jeweller’s ocular fell to the floor and shattered. The agents threw him roughly to the ground. Mr. Sweet stood over the cowering old man while Mr. Candy perused the detailed sculpture work on the tabletop. Reichard, shaken and stunned, sat on the floor adjusting his glasses.
Mr. Candy leaned low to look at a tiny statue of a gladiator in full armour with a trident raised in one hand.
“Detail,” said the agent. “So important in every true work of art.” Mr. Candy picked up a small paintbrush with only a single bristle in its head. He dipped it in some red candy paint and drew a frown on the gladiator’s chocolate face. “And you, Herr Fulcher, are an artist. So are the people who designed your history to disguise your past.”
Reichard’s stomach dropped. He had no idea what these strangers were talking about, but just seeing them made him feel deeply uneasy. He decided to be blunt. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do.” Mr. Candy picked up a lion from the coliseum floor. The animal fit into the palm of the agent’s gloved hand. “We looked into your background and found something very interesting. You were an orphan, weren’t you?”
Reichard nodded.
“According to the official files, you were brought up in a state-run orphanage in Basel. On the day you turned sixteen, you discovered that you had a long-lost uncle who died and left you a healthy amoun
t of money. Enough to buy this shop and start you off in the chocolate business. What a stroke of luck.”
“I was very lucky, yes. What does it matter to you?”
Mr. Candy held the lion up and admired it under the light. “It matters a great deal to me. Because it is all a pack of lies.” He crushed the lion, sugary crumbs tumbling through his spidery fingers as he ground the creature to dust. “We’ve checked into the orphanage. We were very thorough, interviewing all the people who were there at the same time you were supposed to have been there. No one remembers you. Do you know why?”
“I kept to myself.” Reichard began to feel peculiar. The stranger’s words seemed to jog something deep in his memory, but it remained just beyond his mind’s grasp. He also felt that if he did remember, he mustn’t tell the sinister men in grey.
“You were never there, that’s why no one knows you. I have a theory. Do you want to hear it?”
“Not particularly,” Reichard said with a defiance he didn’t truly feel.
Mr. Candy picked a hammer from the rack overhead. He tossed it in the air and caught it, the metal head spinning end over end above the elaborate model of the ancient Roman Coliseum rendered in such scrupulous detail. The model represented hundreds of hours of devoted craftsmanship. “I believe you are one of the orphans from the mythical Hollow Mountain, a ward of the King of Switzerland, our mortal enemy. I believe he provided you the cover story, planted those lies in the public records, and gave you the money to start this enterprise.” Mr. Candy stopped flipping the hammer and stared at Reichard. “What do you think? Is that a good theory?”
The old man looked completely confused. He laughed in disbelief. “I … I really don’t know what you are talking about. Truly, you are quite mad. A hollow mountain? There is no King of Switzerland. Switzerland is a republic. Everybody knows that!”
Reichard felt the viselike grip of Mr. Sweet as the agent pressed down on him, grinding the bones of his shoulders in a long-fingered grasp.
