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UNDISCOVERY
Written by Hiptobbi Square
- Chapter One -
The Zoots Family Heirloom
But then, any boy lucky enough to be raised in Obsequiem Skies was himself no stranger to spoils. It was a magnificent, princely housing estate that sat upon a lofty mountaintop, so high up it was like a raised middle finger to the rest of the world; and had sensational views of the ocean, the forests, great glistening icecaps, and – on clear days – even the ruins of the ancient citadel far to the east. A vast lake was settled into the mountain’s summit, around which were built manors and palaces and bungalows of all shapes and designs. These stately homes were kept separate from one another by cascades of roaring white water, and were joined together by a clever network of paved bridges. ‘The Chalice of the West,’ some called it. It had other names.
Perhaps a more adventurous boy would appreciate its many wonders, but Guilliam, blessed though he was with youth and good looks, paid it little mind when there was a state-of-the-art gramophone and seventeen gallons of ice cream with which to content himself at home. The radio announcer had just delivered the punch line for a long and comical yarn about a frisky dragon and a buxom saloon waitress, which was causing Guilliam to snort thickly through a spoonful of treacle (it was oozing, unnoticed, down both of his chins), when his aunt thought to interrupt.
‘Guilliam, darling,’ she simpered, sweeping in from the kitchen and pinching his flabby cheek rather roughly, ‘why not switch off that old thing and take a turn around the garden, hm?’
Her face, which looked like a densely-powdered prune, was bunched up into an overly fond (and rather deranged) smile. Guilliam gazed mulishly up at it.
‘Why?’ he asked. It was a perfectly reasonable question. This was the third time in as many weeks that she’d asked him to go for a walk, and frankly, his legs were starting to get tired.
‘Auntie has things to organise, poppet,’ she said, still with that manic grin. ‘Things to do with a certain someone’s birthday…?’ She looked imploringly at him, now baring her grey-yellow teeth with excitement. ‘Can you think of any special boys who are having a birthday tomorrow?’
Guilliam stared off into space for a moment, frowning slightly as he pondered the question.
‘Me?’ he said at last.
Lady Wartrude gave a coy little giggle. There was a fair chance that she had expected him to answer incorrectly. ‘That’s right, dimplecakes! And your old auntie’s got a surprise in store that I know you won’t want spoiled…’
He gave her an appraising look; his small, wet mouth hanging open slightly. What could she possibly have had in store for a boy with no friends? Surely not a party … perhaps she was ordering in an extra-large shipment of his favourite squisberry parfait? If she needed privacy for that, he thought, then so be it. With a grimace, he pushed himself up from the sofa and swayed unsteadily on his bare feet for a moment. Then he gave his adoring auntie a nod, and shuffled out of the sitting room.
‘Have fun, poopsie!’ she called after him, ‘and remember: if you start to sweat, lie down in the shade and count to a thousand!’
‘Right, right,’ he muttered as he stepped out into the foyer, which was so grand it looked more like a cathedral swathed in velvet drapes. He pulled open the front door – pausing, of course, to screw up his face against the harsh light of day – and went for a grumpy waddle along the garden path. It was there that he saw a small wooden rowboat soaring magically across the sky, with someone very skinny at the oars. Once it had cleared the cliffs, the boat dropped sharply and landed with a hollow thud at the end of the garden path. From it stepped Mr Zoots, carrying a brown paper package under one arm.
Mr Zoots was an elderly gentleman who always wore a tweed jacket and grey slacks. He looked like a man who had lost his bearings after being struck by lightning, with his wispy white hair that stuck out in all directions and glasses that magnified his keen eyes to the size of saucers. Though frail in body, the man himself was spry and boisterous – Guilliam could not remember ever seeing him without a smile on his face. Today, it seemed, was no exception. He waved enthusiastically as he walked, and the two of them met halfway down the path.
‘Good day!’ cried Zoots, ‘Good day, good day, the best of days, wot-wot!’ He took Guilliam’s chubby hand and wrung it vigorously, panting from the effort of rowing his boat up one of the tallest mountains in all of Majesmuír. ‘I’ve just come from the South, you know … dreadful run of luck they’ve had with the monsters in the marshes this past year … anyway, wouldn’t you know it, they sprang a trap on the fiends in the dead of night and drove them all out to sea! All of them! In one night! I ask you! The whole region is still celebrating, and why shouldn’t they, really, the ink’s still wet on the pages of history, and –’ (he took a huge breath) ‘– good gravy, what a day!’
Guilliam didn’t even bother to feign interest at this, though his ears pricked up intuitively at the mention of gravy. He was casting covetous looks at the package under Mr Zoots’ arm with his small, piggy eyes. Zoots, apparently aware of this, smiled wider still.
‘Aha, but I can’t put a thing past you, can I?’ he chuckled, holding it out in both hands. ‘Go on, then, have at it.’
This, of course, was all the invitation Guilliam needed. He snatched it away and tore off the wrapping paper (throwing it carelessly behind him as he did), to reveal a knobbly old brass telescope underneath. A completely worthless, unremarkable – and worst of all, inedible – old telescope. His look of greedy anticipation disappeared at once; he was feeling sulky and boorish once more. Mr Zoots, however, seemed not to notice.
‘Happy birthday, my dear boy!’ he said cheerfully, when it became clear that no thank-you would come, ‘This has been in my family for generations, you know, but I’ve no-one to leave it to … dashed shame, never married … though there have been a few indiscretions here and there, I daresay … like Jasmelle, gracious, what a catch she was … bosoms till Tuesday, you know … ’
Guilliam continued to look unimpressed, even disgusted, by what he was holding.
‘Anyhoo,’ continued Zoots, recovering from his reminiscent lapse, ‘the other day, I sat down and I said to myself, “Zoots,” I said, “Zoots, now young Guilliam, he’s on the fast track to manhood. Sooner or later he’s going to have to look beyond his borders,” and I thought, well hang on! He’ll need a telescope for that! So there we go, old chap, that’s the story. That’s the story behind you becoming the lucky recipient of a precious Zoots heirloom! Treat it well, won’t you?’
It was a request that Guilliam had no intention of honouring. He gave a non-committal jerk of the head, and stuffed it into his trouser pocket.
‘Jolly good,’ smiled Zoots, bouncing happily up and down on the spot. ‘Well, I mustn’t keep your dear aunt waiting, you know what she’s like – barking mad, of course, is what I mean, but in the best possible way.’ He chortled to himself, apparently amused by his own eccentric character. Guilliam thought it supremely rich of Mr Zoots to call anyone other than himself barking mad, as the old man wiped his eyes fondly, still guffawing. ‘Ahh, capital, capital … well, cheerio, then, Guill, and have just a cracking birthday, won’t you? But don’t go over-indulging!’
‘Bye,’ said Guilliam indifferently, and he continued to amble down the garden path as Zoots sashayed towards the house. The sun shone hot and bright over the estate, which was most unpleasant for Guilliam, whose shirt was already soaked through with sweat as he lumbered aimlessly across Lady Wartrude’s superbly-kept front lawn. Kippers, he thought irritably, this birthday’s already more trouble than it’s worth. What was all the fuss about, anyway? So he was turning fifteen, big deal. What a perfect excuse for his batty old aunt to lavish cakes and sweets and tarts and scones and pies upon him like she did every other day since the night his parents left him with her, all those years ago. Why they did it, he would never know, and nor did he wish to find out. He was not a curious boy, Guilliam Wartrude, though with so many other fine qualities he could hardly be faulted for it.
A fine, constant spray rose up from the roaring waterfall at the edge of the property. Panting slightly, Guilliam sat his immense bulk down on the grass and let it drizzle over him, feeling soothed, but not as soothed as he undoubtedly would indoors. It was here that the telescope in his pocket prodded uncomfortably between the soft rolls of his thigh, and he yanked it out, muttering a string of profanities. What a stupid gift, he thought, examining it sourly. Only boys who gave a damn about the world beyond their sitting room would appreciate this gift, and Guilliam certainly wasn’t one of them.
He rolled onto his stomach, much as a walrus would, and peered lazily into the eyepiece. To his surprise, it was quite far-reaching, and very clear. He propped himself up on his elbows and adjusted the lens, zooming in and out as he scanned over the extravagant homes peppered along the far bank of the lake. When his line of sight passed across the mansion nearest to him, he stopped and shuffled forward, snickering in a perverse sort of way.
Mr Belverdoir was having a heated argument with his wife in their drawing room. By the looks of things, they were shouting over each other, both red in the face and gesturing wildly, until at last she flung a full glass of wine at his shirt front, and he punched her in the face without a second’s hesitation. Guilliam gave a shout of laughter, his mouth hanging open in delighted disbelief.
‘Cor,’ he scoffed happily, ‘this is brilliant!’
And so he spent the rest of the afternoon spying on the neighbours until his stomach began to grouse loudly at him. He waddled back inside, feeling smug with the knowledge that he had seen the prudent Mrs Braxley in her underthings, whereas poor Mr Braxley most likely had not.
o0o
‘Stop being boring!’ he shouted.
‘What was that, my sweet?’ Lady Wartrude called up from downstairs in her most cloying, sing-song voice.
He didn’t bother to dignify her with a response. It was getting late now. The sky was a deep navy colour, dotted with hundreds of thousands of stars, and its two moons shone blue and white like a pair of mismatched eyes. Looking back through the telescope, Guilliam saw the silhouette of a dragon in front of the white moon, its long wings beating slowly, tediously up and down as it flew around in circles like a sentry in the distance. Boring things, dragons, he thought to himself, though he had never seen one up close. He turned his attention eastward, fast becoming fed up with the telescope, and looked out over the ancient ruins which stood pitch black against the ring of blue horizon.
Strangely, there was a light inside, gleaming out from the citadel like a tiny red gemstone. Guilliam – though he could hardly care less for long-dead civilizations and other such rubbish – frowned slightly. He may not have been a very bright boy, but he was quite sure that abandoned, derelict cities were not meant to have lights shining out from them. He adjusted the lens for a better look, but the ruins were more than a hundred miles away – he couldn’t see anything more if he tried.
‘Stuff it,’ he yawned, setting the telescope down on the windowsill and moseying over to his enormous four-poster bed. He collapsed onto it, sending dozens of tasselled cushions tumbling over the side like bathwater, and was snoring loudly in a matter of minutes.
o0o
‘Happy birthday, Guilly-poo!’ she cooed, setting it down in front of him. He looked at the meal, blankly – green marshmallows in chocolate sauce. Kind of a weird start to the day, but whatever, he thought, it’s my birthday, and started to shovel them into his mouth. ‘That’s right,’ whispered Lady Wartrude, her crazed eyes practically bugging from their sockets, ‘that’s right, eat up now. Eat up for Auntie.’
She clasped her bony hands in front of her chest, which was heaving up and down. For a second, he was tempted to ask if she was all right, but then a far greater question came to mind:
‘So what’s this big surprise you’ve got in store for me?’
He took a sip from his teacup, in which there was more sugar than tea, and looked expectantly at her from the corners of his beady little eyes. Lady Wartrude’s harlequin grin twitched horribly. She looked like a woman who was determined to be on her best behaviour in the middle of a house fire. All of a sudden, (and completely unexpectedly), she turned her gaze to the open window and let out a shriek of laughter.
‘He’s here!’ she screeched, and for one wild moment Guilliam thought she was having a seizure. She was pointing to the window fitfully, and making a sound that was not unlike a puppy refusing to let go of its chew toy. She rushed out of the sitting room, and Guilliam, startled out of complacency, heaved himself out of his seat and followed after her to the front terrace. There he saw a galleon as large as any mansion come soaring through the sky, weightless despite its colossal size; its black sails caught high in the mountain winds, blotting out the sun as it drifted majestically over the front lawn towards him. Guilliam gazed up at it, chocolate sauce leaking from both sides of his dumbly hanging mouth. He’d seen flying rowboats and flying stagecoaches in his lifetime, but never anything as almighty as this.
Lady Wartrude was doing what looked like a jig, humming frantically to herself as she watched it float down onto the grass, where it settled. After a minute, a man wearing a long black cloak appeared out from behind it, and came strolling purposefully over to where they stood. Guilliam eyed him with immediate suspicion. He had lank, matted hair that hung messily over his eyes; a whiskery face; and a long, sharp nose. Everything he wore – from his gloves, to his boots, to his belt – was black. Typically, Lady Wartrude would sooner clean the downstairs bathroom with her tongue than associate with such riff-raff, but to Guilliam’s immense surprise, she began to cry tears of joy at the very sight of him.
‘Lady Wartrude, we meet again!’ laughed the man in a raspy, but unexpectedly refined voice. He took her hand and kissed it more than once, and she gave a girlish sort of titter that Guilliam could happily have gone the rest of his life without hearing. Then man stood up straight and gazed excitedly, almost greedily, at him. ‘And this must be young Guilliam!’
‘S’right,’ said Guilliam coldly, still peering at him through narrowed eyes.
‘Guilliam, this is Mr Carroway,’ said his aunt, with a watery smile. ‘He’s here to take you on a wonderful, magical journey for your birthday!’
‘But I don’t want to go on a wonderful, magical journey for my birthday!’ he protested loudly, eyes wide and furious, ‘I just want my squisberry parfait!’
Lady Wartrude and Mr Carroway shared a very condescending laugh that made the hairs on the back of Guilliam’s neck stand on end. What the hell was going on here? He noticed that two more men had emerged from the ship. They looked identical to one another – both seven feet tall and built like ogres; with bare, reddish chests; and bald heads that shone in the mid-morning sun. A scowl was twisted into their lumpy faces. One was carrying a large and heavy-looking sack.
‘Come now, my dear Guill,’ said Mr Carroway, still laughing unpleasantly with his cold eyes fixed upon the boy, ‘every young man needs a glimpse of the wider world from time to time – even spoiled, pampered little piggies like yourself.’
Guilliam’s face went slack. He looked between Mr Carroway, who was sneering indulgently, and his aunt, whose face betrayed no pretence of warmth anymore. Instead, she looked wicked, almost bestial, and was clapping her hands together with glee. He suddenly became aware of a sick feeling in his stomach, and his hands and face had become very clammy.
‘My money, Mr Carroway…?’ said Lady Wartrude, imploringly.
‘But of course,’ said the man, beckoning to one of his cronies, who dropped the sack beside her. It was waist-high, and packed to the drawstring with fat gold doubloons. Lady Wartrude gave an ecstatic little moan. ‘Compliments of my master,’ he added, his eyes flashing dangerously. ‘He’ll be very pleased with this one.’
Guilliam had started to back away. His heart was beating rather fast, which (given his lifestyle) was something that rarely ever happened. ‘Auntie?’ he croaked uncertainly, looking to her for comfort and assurance for the first time in a long time.
His aunt reluctantly turned her attention away from the gold, and looked straight at him. All of the manic, maternal warmth he had come to take for granted had vanished from her face. Instead he was staring at a shrewd, malicious-looking woman whose every wrinkle glowed with triumph. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Guilliam,’ she said simply, ‘but you didn’t think I’d kept you around all these years because I wanted you?’
A shocked silence fell over the front terrace as Guilliam let her words sink in. Then Mr Carroway clicked his fingers, and the enormous twin henchmen advanced on the boy, grabbing him roughly by his arms and ankles. Guilliam squealed; squealed like a piglet being weaned from the teat; squealed for help, for protection, for anyone to rescue him from this sudden and highly unwelcome waking nightmare. They lifted him with surprising ease and marched back to the ship as he thrashed wildly in their grasp.
‘Have fun, cupcake!’ cried the charming and most unselfish Lady Wartrude, waving her handkerchief after them and looking, for the first time, as sane as any other well-to-do woman in Obsequiem Skies.
o0o
