The Doldrums and the Helmsley Curse. Nicholas Gannon
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asked.
“I can’t tell,” Adélaïde replied, returning to her desk. “He’s never written about it. And even if we were allowed to tell him, I wouldn’t know which rumor to begin with.”
Oliver didn’t know either. There were new rumors every day. And they were getting worse.
Adélaïde finished her letter, stuffed it into an envelope alongside Oliver’s, and said, “I’m ready.”
♦ THROW CARES AWAY ♦
At the front door, they pulled on their coats and wrapped their scarves. Adélaïde wedged a second scarf into her boot to fill the gap around her wooden leg. They trudged down the front steps and forged the sidewalk snow trenches. The sun was gone and the stars were out and the lampposts lit their way.
“If I didn’t know any better,” Oliver said, helping Adélaïde over a snowbank, “I’d think we actually made it to Antarctica.”
On the corner, they passed a group of carolers.
Hark how the bells, sweet silver bells
All seem to say, “Throw cares away.”
Christmas is here, bringing good cheer.
They turned onto Howling Bloom Street—a winding lane lined with small shops, including a corner café that belonged to Adélaïde’s father. Bundled store owners stood high atop ladders, decking their windows with lights and garlands and festive displays while shoppers gathered to watch.
“Mind your heads!” Mr. Bray of Bray and Ink shouted as Oliver and Adélaïde dashed beneath his ladder. “That’s bad luck!”
When they reached Belmont Café, their faces were red and stiff, but inside, it was crowded and warm, with steaming cups of coffee all around. Adélaïde scanned the overflowing bar. The barman caught her eye and shouted, “TWO HOT CHOCOLATES, ADIE?” Adélaïde nodded and led Oliver through the buzzing café to a table in the corner. Oliver unwrapped his scarf and tilted his head. Adélaïde did the same. A newspaper had been left on the table.
ROSEWOOD CHRONICLE
ICEBERG HOAX!
Another day, another rumor. Rosewood is perfectly drunk with them. And it’s time you all stop drinking. But before you do, we ask that you stretch out your tankards one last time and allow us to refill them. We at the Chronicle have been informed that Ralph and Rachel Helmsley orchestrated their own disappearance. That’s right, the iceberg was nothing more than a hoax!
Where does this information come from? A man whose name, while not as famous as Helmsley’s, might be familiar to some: Herbert P. Birthwhistle—the sitting president of the Society.
“We’re still gathering information,” President Birthwhistle said via telephone from the Scotland Society. “But I can say without hesitation that the iceberg was no accident. We know the Helmsleys got onto an iceberg and that after an exhaustive search, the Helmsleys could not be found. We believe the Helmsleys did not want to be found.”
For those unfamiliar, the Society is an organization of explorers and naturalists headquartered in Barrow’s Bay.
“I hate to speak ill of a fellow explorer,” President Birthwhistle elaborated, “so I will not go into the details, but while president, Ralph Helmsley had made increasingly bizarre decisions. Many of our members suspected the aging explorers had lost their minds. Many believed they were out to destroy our Society. An effort was taken up to unseat Ralph. When faced with this disgrace, the Helmsleys vanished.
“Vanishing in Antarctica has made legends of already-great explorers. I suspect the Helmsleys desired to join their numbers.
“I’m not sure how they survived. I’m not sure why they’re suddenly coming home. But they are. Society members have been alerted. And I felt it my duty to extend a similar warning to the citizens of Rosewood. It’s not with a light heart that I say the Helmsleys are a danger to everyone.”
“This is bad,” Adélaïde said, tearing the article from the paper as her father wove through the crowded café. He set two hot chocolates before them, and they scooped them up to warm their hands.
“It’s good to see you again, Olrich,” Mr. Belmont said.
“His name is Oliver,” Adélaïde replied, grinning.
“That’s nice.”
A rush of cold air shot through the café as a short woman in a flowery coat dashed inside.
“Cold!” the woman cried, slamming the door behind her. “So terribly cold! So terribly cold indeed! Never in my life, never, not once have I experienced a winter so cold! It truly must be a curse! Yes, it’s the Helmsley Curse!”
Many in the café echoed, “The Helmsley Curse!” The Rosewood Chronicle had coined that phrase to explain why the city was plunging into the harshest winter any of its residents could remember.
“The closer the Helmsleys get, the colder it gets,” someone grumbled. “They’re bringing their iceberg home.”
“They should lock down the port. We shouldn’t let them in.”
The woman in the flowery coat bobbed her head in agreement and squeezed in at the bar. “A quadruple! Make it a quadruple! And make it hot!”
“The cold hasn’t been a curse for business,” Mr. Belmont mumbled, and returned to the bar.
Oliver wiped away his chocolate mustache. “I don’t believe in curses,” he whispered.
Adélaïde pointed out that Oliver also had something of a chocolate beard before responding. “I don’t either. But you have to admit that all of this is very strange.”
“My father says the Chronicle is tabloid trash,” Oliver replied, reading the story once more. His father, Mr. Glub, owned a much smaller Rosewood newspaper called the Doldrums Press. “Archer’s grandparents lost their minds? They wanted to vanish?”
“Who would make that up?” Adélaïde asked, swirling a finger through the steam rising from her mug. “Do you really not believe any of it?”
Oliver opened his mouth to respond, but filled it with hot chocolate instead.
♦ THREE HOURS BY TRAIN ♦
“We’d better go,” Oliver said, gulping the last of his hot chocolate. “They’ll be picking up the mail soon.”
Adélaïde and Oliver left the café and crossed Foldink Street. The postbox was buried in the snow. Oliver wiped the door clean and pulled hard to open it. Adélaïde dropped the letter inside.
“How far away is Raven Wood, anyway?” she asked.
“Three hours by train,” he replied.
And by train was exactly how their letter would travel. It was picked up later that evening, sorted at the post office, sent in a dirty bag to Rosewood Station, and tossed into a mail car. The train pushed north through Rosewood, clanked across a bridge spanning the frozen canal, and continued far outside the city. It snaked a rocky shoreline, billowing smoke high above snow-covered pines, till it arrived in the village of Stonewick. The letters were sorted once more and placed into the back of a mail truck. The truck puttered off into a thick pine forest, slid beneath a crooked wrought-iron gate, and entered a clearing where stood, at the edge of a cliff, Raven Wood Boarding School.