by Sean Cullen
“What’s the big idea?” Fridgeface shouted. “I was winning that hand!”
“Shut up and look.” His friend pointed. Three large kites were wafting over the electric fence towards the tundra beyond. They stared in disbelief.
“What was that?” asked Bowlingballface.
“An escape!” Fridgeface bellowed. He reached behind him and slapped the red button on the wall. Throughout the Windcity Orphanage and Cheese Factory, alarm bells began to ring.
Piratical Interlude
The wind moaned through the rigging and buffeted the ship, but they made good headway. They were riding with the breeze, so the helmsman had merely to hold his course and the wind would do the rest.
The Captain stood at the helmsman’s shoulder. Ahead was only darkness and swirling snow.
“How much longer?”
The helmsman consulted the chart. “If zis English pigdog isn’t lyink, about an hour.”
From the corner of the bridge a fearful voice stammered, “I assure you, I am being absolutely truthful! I swear on the good name of the Cheddar family!” The Captain stalked over and looked down at the pitiful creature chained to the bulkhead. Lord Cheddar cringed back, trying to make himself as tiny as possible. His dark pinstriped suit was torn and filthy. For three nights he’d been chained to the bulkhead—ever since the pirates had swept down on his cheese factory in Cheddar Hole just outside of Sheffield, England.
The Captain loomed over the quaking cheese master. “You’d better be telling the truth.” Pulling a long, glittering sabre from his belt, he held it before the terrified Lord Cheddar’s eyes. “Or I’ll slice you from niblets to gubblits.”
Though Lord Cheddar didn’t know which parts of him were niblets and which gubblits, he hastened to reassure the Captain. “I swear. According to the latest issue of The Cheesemakers Directory, the directions I gave you are accurate.”
The Captain grunted. He grabbed the funnel-shaped speaking tube that functioned as a communications system in the ship. He blew once on the mouthpiece, creating a whistling sound.
“Kipling,” he shouted into the mouthpiece.
“Aye, sir,” came the tinny response.
“Prepare the landing party!”
“Aye, sir!”
Chapter 12
Viggo stormed into the security centre. “What’s going on?” he demanded. The cheese master was wrapped in a grey flannel bathrobe. His hair lay flat on one side of his head and stuck straight out on the other as if he’d just rolled out of bed, which, of course, he had. His pyjamas, visible underneath the robe, were baby blue with little horsies prancing on them. He pulled his robe tighter in a vain attempt to cover the horsies. Forkliftface slumped on a stool holding a bag of ice against his head. Bowlingballface sat manning the radar screen and Fridgeface was replaying the feed from the closed-circuit television cameras that kept watch on the perimeter of the factory. All three guards turned and stared at Viggo.
“WELL?” he demanded. The guards jumped to attention.
“Three children have escaped. They flew out on some kind of kitey things about ten minutes ago,” Fridgeface explained.
“They’ve headed due south on the prevailing wind.” This from Bowlingballface.
“They kicked me in the groin,” Forkliftface moaned.
“I’ll kick you in the groin too if you don’t quit whining.” Viggo stepped closer to look at the television screen over the guard’s shoulder. “Who was it? Don’t tell me! Hamish X!”
“And the crazy girl,” Tubaface puffed into the room. Pianoface came in right on his heels, adding, “And the little Indian boy with the glasses.”
Viggo watched as a screen showed a video playback of the three kites rising into the night. “I knew it! I knew it! That little troublemaker thinks he can make a fool out of me, but he won’t. Oh no! We’ll catch him. Assemble the guards at the front gate. Shut down the factory and lock all the children in the dormitory. Arm the guards and get the dogs!” Viggo ran his fingers in his hair with no appreciable effect. “Tonight we will hunt the great Hamish X down like the rat he is!” He laughed cruelly. The guards joined in after a moment. He raised his hand and the laughter stopped. “Let’s go!”
Mrs. Francis stepped out into corridor. She’d heard the alarm and had gone immediately to check on the children. She was on her way to find Viggo when he burst out of the security room followed by the guards in full security gear: helmets, truncheons, and armoured vests. Viggo strode purposefully by on the way to the cafeteria.
“What’s happened?” she asked him.
“That loathsome Hamish X and his two confederates have escaped. We’re off to hunt them down.” He continued past her and disappeared around the corner.
Mrs. Francis clutched her pink fuzzy dressing gown over her heart, trying to drive out the chill she felt. I knew they were leaving, she thought, I just knew it! Oh please, Lord, keep them safe.
She shook her head and stepped back into the kitchen and shut the door. It was past midnight and the morning meal was hours away. The kitchen was dark, but the metal utensils and hanging pots on the overhead racks gleamed faintly in the light that spilled from the door of her tiny adjoining apartment. She knew she’d get no more sleep tonight, so she walked across the tile floor towards her room to get dressed.
Just as she reached the bedroom door she heard a dull clang behind her. She stopped and listened, wondering if she had imagined it. The alarm was ringing still, making it hard to hear anything but its insistent clatter. She turned and looked back into the dim kitchen.
Nothing seemed out of place. Sacks of oatmeal leaned against the wall in the corner. The ladles hung from their rack by the serving hatch. The refrigerator hummed and clanked. The serving hatch was closed …
Wait. The hatch wasn’t quite closed. A sliver of light from the cafeteria shone through a crack in the barely open shutters. Mrs. Francis thought hard. I’m sure I closed and latched that after dinner, she thought.
Slowly she crossed the floor and pushed the shutters completely closed, flipping the latch to lock them tight. She was standing right beside the large porridge vat when she heard the clanging sound again, followed quickly by stifled whispers. She looked down at the vat.
It’s coming from in there. She reached for her largest ladle, taking it from its hook with a care not to cause any noise. Then, her heart in her mouth, she reached for the handle of the vat cover and suddenly flipped it up.
She gasped at what she saw. Hamish X, Parveen, and Mimi sat huddled in the vat looking up at her, their eyes wide. “What are you doing in there?” she gasped.
“I think it’s obvious, dear Mrs. Francis. We’re hiding,” Hamish X whispered.
“Everyone thinks you’ve escaped.”
“We’ve sent them on a bit of a wild goose chase,” Parveen explained. “When they’ve all gone, we’ll make our way out the front door to the harbour, steal a boat, and sail away.”
“After I get my book back from Viggo’s office,” Hamish X said.
“Of course,” Parveen corrected.
“Why not just run?” Mimi rolled her eyes. “Who cares about the book?”
“I do. I told you: It’s all I have left of my mother,” he hissed.
“No need to get all shirty,” Mimi sulked.
“Sorry.” Hamish X laid a hand on her shoulder. He looked up at Mrs. Francis. “Just put the lid back on and pretend you’ve not seen us.”
Mrs. Francis stood holding the lid up, dumbfounded.
“Good idea, Mrs. Francis!” Viggo’s voice made her drop the lid with a clang and spin around. Viggo stood in the doorway, with his parka on over his pyjamas and dressing gown. He strode into the room. Mrs. Francis stepped between him and the vat.
“You should have some porridge on the boil for the search party. We should be back shortly. They can’t have gotten far!”
“I’ll start right away.” She stepped to the sacks of porridge and grabbed one. “Any idea where they’re head
ed?”
“South, of course,” Viggo said. “The wind only blows one way.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Francis stammered. “What a silly I am.” She didn’t bother to remind Viggo of Flip Day, when the wind changed direction. “Oh yes. Silly! Silly! Silly!” She tried to pick up her spurdle but dropped it clattering to the floor.
Viggo’s eyes narrowed. He stepped closer. “You seem a little nervous, Mrs. Francis. Why?”
“Me? Nervous? I’m not nervous. No, just a little flushed with all the excitement. You know. Ha!” She fanned her face with her hand and avoided Viggo’s look. He reached out and turned her head so that she stared into his eyes.
“You didn’t know anything about this escape attempt, did you Mrs. Francis?” he purred softly, dangerously. “I’d hate to think I couldn’t trust you.”
“N-n-n-no. Never! I didn’t know a thing.” It was so hard not to look at the porridge vat. She managed to hold Viggo’s gaze with her own.
“Master Viggo, sir!” A guard appeared in the doorway.
“What?” Viggo snapped.
“We’re all waiting at the front gate.”
Viggo held Mrs. Francis for one more agonizing moment, then let his hand drop. “Let’s not keep them waiting then,” he said finally as they left the room.
Mrs. Francis practically fainted with relief. She sagged against the porridge sacks, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. The lid of the vat opened and the three children peered out.
“Is the coast clear?” Hamish X asked.
“Coast? Oh, yes. The coast is clear,” Mrs. Francis squeaked.
“While you’re up,” Hamish X smiled with all the charm he could muster, which was a formidable amount, “could you throw some food into a bag for us? We’ve a long journey ahead.”
Mrs. Francis smiled, grabbed an empty porridge sack, and reached for the keys to Viggo’s private larder.
Chapter 13
Outside in the night, snow had begun to fall. Fall is perhaps the wrong word. Rain and snow always moved sideways in Windcity. But regardless of its orientation, precipitation in the form of frozen water came from the sky. The guards shuffled from foot to foot in the courtyard waiting for Master Viggo to appear. Snowmobiles idled, the roar of the motors merging with the din of the gale. Snow swirled through the columns of light cast by the lamps around the perimeter of the factory.
Presently, Master Viggo burst through the steel front door and stomped down to the assembled guards. He cast an appraising eye over their ugly faces and spoke.
“All right gentlemen, we have a job to do. At approximately 01:30 tonight, three children made an escape. Our job is to find them and bring them back. Every minute the factory is down, I lose two thousand, seven hundred and thirty-eight dollars and forty-seven cents. Therefore, we must find them and find them fast. They were last seen heading south by southwest in three makeshift kites. We’ll head in that direction, fanning out and using our heat sensors to track them. Any questions?”
Tubaface raised his hand.
“Yes?”
“Where do babies come from?”
“That question is wholly inappropriate to our present situation. Someone slap him.” Pianoface obliged.
“Ow!”
“Any other questions? No? Let’s move out!”
THERE COMES a time in every story when one thinks one has everything figured out. The plot is advancing nicely. The reader can guess what’s going to happen. Everything is neat and tidy: Viggo heads off with his guards on a wild goose chase, the three children escape into the night, steal a ship, and so on. Yes, it’s all there for you, mapped out in your mind. All that’s left is the actual telling.
Then, things suddenly change.
That’s the point we have reached in this story.
SUDDENLY, OUT OF THE NIGHT SKY, a huge metal spike plummeted down, driving itself into the frozen ground and trailing a chain that snaked up into the sky. Forkliftface, who’d been standing in exactly the same spot, disappeared completely.
Viggo looked at the spike in confusion.
“What the …”
That’s when the first explosion rocked the factory. Viggo was thrown to the pavement as the ground shook. He pushed himself to his hands and knees and looked at the factory. The heavy steel front door had been completely blown in.
A whistling sound grew louder and louder. One of the snowmobiles exploded, casting Bowlingballface and Fridgeface into the air. They fell in crumpled heaps and lay still.
“We’re being attacked!” Viggo shouted as more whistles announced a new volley of missiles. He looked up into the sky and saw flashes from above. A massive shape loomed, blocking out the few stars that were in the sky. Ropes snaked out of it, falling in heaps amid the guards.
Soon, wild-eyed men slid down the ropes, screaming and waving swords.
“The Cheese Pirates!” Viggo gibbered. He leapt to his feet and dashed for the smoking hole that had once been the factory’s front door. “Slow them down!” Pianoface and Tubaface, the only guards left, looked at each other and instantly dropped their weapons. “We surrender!”
“WHAT WAS THAT?” Mimi asked as the first explosion shook the building.
“It sounded like an explosion,” Parveen said.
“An explosion?” Mrs. Francis gasped.
Another concussion rattled the pots and pans. Bits of dust sifted down from above. Mrs. Francis went to the doorway and looked down the hall towards the front gate. Snow was swirling through the hole where the door had been. Shouts, screams, and clashes of metal echoed down the corridor. As she watched, Viggo staggered into the hallway followed by a horde of shrieking, ragged men brandishing curved swords and pistols.
Viggo spotted her in the doorway. “Mrs. Francis! Help!” That was all he had time to shout before being overwhelmed by his pursuers.
“Oh dear!” cried out Mrs. Francis involuntarily. “Stop that!”
All eyes turned towards her. For a moment, the men just stared at her in silence.
A more motley, unsavoury group of men would be hard to assemble. Some wore big black boots. Some were barefoot. Some had earrings and nose rings. Some had no ears or noses. There were tall ones, short ones, fat ones, and thin ones. Most had scars in abundance, and dental hygiene did not seem to be high on their list of priorities. Their outlandish clothes looked to be a mishmash of anything that took their fancy as long as it was colourful. All of them were armed to the teeth and all of them were looking at Mrs. Francis.
“A lady,” said one, a short man with an extra eyebrow and a broken nose. The invaders grinned and headed towards her. Mrs. Francis shrieked and ran back into the kitchen, slamming the door and sliding the bolt. She had only a few seconds.
“What’s happening?” Hamish X asked. The three children strained to see past the round body of Mrs. Francis.
“Pirates!” Mrs. Francis hissed. The pirates began pounding on the door. “Get down and keep quiet,” Mrs. Francis ordered, lifting the lid and slamming it down just as the pirates smashed the door open and swarmed into the kitchen. They stopped short in amazement when confronted with Mrs. Francis standing defiantly in the middle of her kitchen with a porridge-stirring paddle in her hands. “Stop right where you are,” she shouted.
The pirates laughed and whistled. One of them, a man with a missing ear, pointed a sword at her. “Look at this, boys. She’s gonna paddle us!” General laughter greeted this witty gem. A man with a hook for a hand took a step towards the frightened cook with his hook extended. “Hand me the paddle, love. Before you hurt yerself.”
Mrs. Francis brought the flat of the paddle down over his head. The man crumpled to the ground. Mrs. Francis seemed as surprised as the pirates. She raised the paddle above her head once more.
“Who’s next?”
The pirates hesitated. For a few seconds, no one moved. Finally, One-Ear laughed harshly.
“It’s a lady with a stick. Are we pirates or what?” They pondered that fact for a mome
nt.
“It’s a big stick,” observed one of his fellows.
“She can’t whack us all. On three! One! Two …”
Mrs. Francis knew she couldn’t withstand a concerted attack. But she had to lure the pirates away from the children hiding in the vat. So before One-Ear could finish counting, she screamed and rushed the pirates in a pre-emptive strike.
Nothing is more terrifying to a man than an angry woman. Add a long wooden implement to the equation and the effect is profoundly unnerving. Mrs. Francis’s charge bowled over the front row of pirates and a powerful sweep of the paddle downed two more, opening a pathway to the kitchen door. Momentum carried her out into the hallway. She set off as fast as her short legs could carry her.
The stunned pirates recovered their composure and in seconds they were after her, led by the one-eyed pirate called One-Eye.
“Get ’er boys!”
The children were safe for the moment. Now, Mrs. Francis could only hope she could find a way out of the factory. Her hopes were dashed when she turned the corner that led to the main gate only to run into another gang of cutthroats blocking her escape. She turned to run back the way she came but her pursuers scrambled around the bend, blocking her way. Cornered, she brandished her paddle.
“Stand back!” she shouted, not feeling as brave as she sounded. “I’m not afraid to use this!”
One-Ear grinned and held up his sabre. “I’m not afraid to use this, either.” He spun the sword in a rather show-offy display, accidentally slicing off one of his comrades’ pinky fingers.
“Ow.”
“Sorry. Give me a bit of space when I’m showing off.”
“My mistake.”
One-Ear smiled at Mrs. Francis, baring yellowed teeth. “Time for some fun, sweetheart.” He was about to lunge when a sharp voice stopped him.
