The Doldrums

♦ GREAT WHITE NOTHINGNESS ♦

Out of the thousands of children born every single day, at least one of them will turn out to be a dreamer. And on May the fifth, in room 37E of the maternity ward at Rosewood Hospital, that one child was Archer Benjamin Helmsley. Yes, there was simply no mistaking it. The doctors saw it, the nurses saw it, and much to her chagrin, his mother saw it. Even a pigeon that wandered into the viewing room station saw it.

The young Archer B. Helmsley lay quietly in the maternity ward, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t know it was a ceiling. He didn’t know what anything was. But Archer lay there all the same, gazing up into that great white nothingness, when all at once, two heads sprouted from nowhere.

“Why hello there,” said one of the heads. “You must be Archer.”

“Yes,” agreed the second head. “He truly must be Archer.”

Whether he must be Archer or not, Archer was Archer, but Archer himself didn’t know that yet.

“Do you know who we are?” asked the first head.

“How could he?” said the second. “He’s only forty-eight hours old.”

The first head agreed. “In that case, I believe introductions are in order. I’m your Grandpa Helmsley and this—this is your Grandma Helmsley.”

Archer didn’t respond because Archer couldn’t respond. There’s really not much you can do when you’re only forty-eight hours old. But the two heads went on and on about this and that, and Archer looked from one to the other, not understanding a single word. Then a third head sprouted from nowhere and just as quickly, all three disappeared, leaving Archer to stare at the ceiling.

♦ HELMSLEYS OF 375 WILLOW STREET ♦

Three days later, Archer was released from Rosewood Hospital and carried to a tall, skinny house on a crooked narrow street in a quiet neighborhood of a not-so-quiet city.

Archer was too little to notice that all of the houses on Willow Street were tall and skinny and stacked one next to the other, like a row of tin soldiers. Archer was also too little to know that his house, number 375, was frequently mistaken for a museum. You see, Archer’s house belonged to Archer’s grandparents, the renowned explorers and naturalists Ralph and Rachel Helmsley.

CHAPTER

ONE

♦ HELMSLEY HOUSE ♦

Archer didn’t have a dog or cat like many children do, but he did have an ostrich, a badger, and a giraffe. Helmsley House was filled with creatures, on all four floors and in all of the rooms. They lined the narrow staircases and still narrower halls. They were all stuffed with fluff and couldn’t do a thing, but that didn’t bother Archer. And because he had no brothers or sisters to speak to, Archer spoke to the animals.

“Good morning, badger,” Archer said on his way to the kitchen. “How’s the weather?”

“I’m sorry to say the rainy autumn continues,” the badger replied. “This moisture does a terrible number on the fur. Just look at this poof.”

Archer gave the badger a pat on the head.

“I never would have noticed,” he lied. (The badger’s fur always looked a frightful mess when the humidity was high.)

Mrs. Helmsley poked her head from the kitchen door.

“Who are you speaking to?” she asked.

“Oh—no one,” said Archer. “Just myself.”

He stepped beneath his mother’s frown and into the kitchen.

After eating his breakfast of tea with milk and toast with jam, Archer began exploring. He wandered down the first-floor hallway and into the conservatory, a glass room filled with glass cases that stuck out into the back garden, and pressed his face against one that was filled with bizarre jungle insects.

It’s good these are dead, he thought. One, he was certain, would turn his head purple if it latched onto his toe. Another, he assumed, would dig its way under his skin and decide to start a family deep inside. Very good indeed.

Along the walls were more glass cases holding row after row of neatly aligned butterflies. Archer noted these were not of the variety one might take an interest in and chase after. On the contrary, it appeared as though these might take an interest in and chase after you.

“Best to avoid these butterflies,” he said to the giraffe.

“A wise choice, my dear,” the giraffe replied. “I shudder every time I look at them.”

“Do you think we should even call them butterflies?” he asked.

“Perhaps a name like shudderflies would be more accurate,” said the giraffe.

Archer grinned. “Yes. These are definitely shudderflies.”

He turned to leave, but nearly hit the ceiling when he discovered his mother standing behind him. Her hands were holding her hips in place.

“Who are you speaking to?” she insisted.

“Oh—no one,” he replied. “Just myself.”

Archer slipped beneath her furrowed brow and continued on his way.

♦ GLOCKENSPIEL & SCUTTLEBUTT ♦

Archer’s mother, Helena E. Helmsley, hosted frequent dinner parties at Helmsley House. The guests of these events were always eager to see the home that belonged to the renowned explorers. Archer, on the other hand, was never excited to see the guests.

“It’s going to be a big one tonight,” he said, consoling the ostrich with a pat on the back.

“Don’t touch me,” snapped the ostrich. “I told you not to come near me with those filthy hands.”

Archer apologized and slowly backed away. (The ostrich was like that sometimes.)

It’s often the case that adults look at children as if they were nothing more than bizarre museum exhibits. For a boy like Archer, in a house like his, this treatment was worse. Much worse. So on these nights he tried his best, often with little success, to escape upstairs.

“Archer,” said Mrs. Helmsley, just as he put his foot on the stair. “I would like to introduce you to Mr. Glockenspiel. He owns an award-winning ballpoint pen factory in Germany.”

Archer turned and approached this well-whiskered man.

“Good evening, Mr. Glob of Seal,” he said.

Mr. Glockenspiel frowned. Mr. Helmsley tried his best not to laugh. Mrs. Helmsley found the task much simpler.

“It’s Glockenspiel,” she insisted. “Glock—en—spiel.”

“That is correct,” huffed the Glob of Seal.

Archer was glad this man’s name was not Glob of Seal. You wouldn’t go very far with a name like that.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Gawk and Squeal,” he said.

Mr. Helmsley nearly burst. Mrs. Helmsley grabbed Archer’s arm. She ushered him away from the Glob of Seal and assigned him the task of carrying a tray of cucumbers around to the guests.

“Just smile and nod,” she said, her hazel eyes looking terribly grave. “There’s no need to say another word tonight.”

While making his cucumber rounds, Archer spotted a scraggly looking gentleman sneaking down the halls as though he knew them well. Archer was curious and followed and watched as the man stumbled into an empty room. Archer poked his head through the door, but nearly shouted and dropped the cucumbers when he discovered the man staring straight back at him. The man nodded for Archer to enter, then eased himself into an armchair.

Archer stood silently before the stranger, thinking he looked most out of place at his mother’s dinner party. And though this man was old, his pale green eyes sparkled with life.

“You must be Archer Helmsley,” he said with a warm smile. “The wonderful grandson to Ralph and Rachel Helmsley. And you come bearing gifts, I see.”

Archer lifted the tray. “Would you like a cucumber?” he asked.

“Never cared for them much,” the man admitted, and twisted his head around the room while keeping his eyes on Archer. “Your grandparents have a lovely house. What do you think of them?”

Archer shrugged. “I’ve never met them,” he replied.

The man nodded. “I can’t say I’m surprised, but I’m sure you will soon enough.” He then lowered his voice, despite no one else’s being in the room. “Between you and me, they wouldn’t be terribly thrilled about all these gatherings riddled with scuttlebutt filling the great halls of Helmsley House.”

Archer wasn’t sure what scuttlebutt meant, but it made him smile. And he was glad to hear his grandparents weren’t fond of dinner parties either.

“There’s a fascinating world out there, Archer Helmsley,” the man continued. “But you’d never know that looking at these people.” He glanced at his watch. “Now I’m sorry to say I must be going. Mind giving me a shoulder?”

Archer lowered the tray.

“We’d best go as quickly as possible,” the man said, standing up and taking hold of Archer’s shoulder. “We want to avoid your—” he stopped.

Archer stared up at him. “Avoid who?” he asked.

The man smiled and shook his head. “Oh, no one,” he replied. “We just don’t want to get stuck in an undesirable conversation.”

Archer agreed. There were plenty of those on such nights. But he knew his house well and led the man on a roundabout way, through empty halls and down the stairs, till they arrived at the door without anyone being the wiser.

The man stood on the front steps, silhouetted in a silver streak by the streetlamps, and gazed down at him.

“Do they always dress you up like a Christmas tree?” he asked.

Archer’s green velvet suit and red dotted bow tie did make him look rather festive. Mrs. Helmsley said he looked like a gentleman, but Archer agreed with this man. He looked like a Christmas tree.

The man placed a firm hand on Archer’s shoulder and said, “Always remember you’re a Helmsley, Archer. And being a Helmsley means something.”

He turned to leave, but Archer stopped him with a question.

“How do you know my grandparents?” he asked.

“That’s a long story,” the man replied, without turning around. “Remind me to tell you the next time we meet.”

Archer watched the man hobble down the sidewalk, a little afraid he might stumble into oncoming traffic, until a hand reached out and shut the door.

“Who was that?” Mrs. Helmsley asked.

“I don’t know,” said Archer. “But he knows Grandma and Grandpa.”

Archer wished he were as lucky as that man. He’d never met his grandparents. They’d been traveling the world ever since he was born. To Archer, Ralph and Rachel Helmsley were a mystery wrapped in a secret—a secret he very much wanted to know. But his mother always changed the subject whenever their names were mentioned.

“Where’s your tray?” she asked.

Archer sighed and retrieved the tray, to continue with his cucumber rounds. “You’re a Helmsley … and being a Helmsley means something.” Archer wasn’t sure what that meant, but he was fairly certain it had nothing to do with cucumbers. Still, he weaved his way through the crowded rooms and was about to attempt a second escape when the porcupine on the radiator asked if it might try one.

“Yes,” said Archer. “But not in front of these people.”

He took the creature into the empty dining room.

“Those taste awful,” said the porcupine.

Archer tried one and agreed. He left the prickly fellow on a chair and went to the kitchen to find something better. While he was away, the guests entered the dining room to take their seats. Mr. Glockenspiel failed to notice that his seat was already occupied and hastily plopped his derriere right atop the porcupine. Archer returned from the kitchen but stopped in the doorway, watching as the guests gawked and Mr. Glockenspiel squealed. His father alone seemed to enjoy the scene.

“It was him!” shouted the Glob of Seal, rubbing his rear and pointing his chubby finger at Archer.

Mrs. Helmsley spun around in her chair and looked as though she was the one who’d just sat atop the porcupine.

“Did you do this?” she demanded.

Archer didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything.

It was no secret to him that little he did pleased his mother. And he knew she wasn’t as fond of the house as he was. But Mrs. Helmsley wasn’t a Helmsley by blood, and that’s often how it goes.

Things were different with his father.

♦ GAUDY LITTLE FELLOW ♦

Archer’s father, Richard B. Helmsley, was a lawyer. Archer didn’t know much about lawyers, and to be honest, he wasn’t interested. What did interest him were the secret trips he and his father took. These began when Archer was seven years old, and they had to be done in secret because his mother wouldn’t like the idea.

“Psst,” Mr. Helmsley had whispered one day.

“Hello!” blurted Archer.

“Shhh,” shushed his father.

“Why are we whispering,” whispered Archer.

“No time to explain. Follow me.”

Archer followed his father out the front door and down the sidewalk.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

Mr. Helmsley had led him to Rosewood Park, which was more like a dark and unruly forest. Its winding walkways quickly vanished, but straight ahead, rising high above the thick canopy and glowing a brilliant orange, loomed the Rosewood Museum towers. Archer thought the museum was ancient, built with flourishes of terra-cotta and capped with a moldy green roof. The front gardens were in need of some attention, but he liked the weathered majesty of it all.

Once inside, he followed his father down countless corridors filled with countless oddities and listened to stories of how his father almost became the greatest explorer of countless places.

“And then I almost became the world’s greatest explorer of Egypt,” said Mr. Helmsley as they approached a sarcophagus belonging to the late Pharaoh Tappenkuse.

Archer admired his father and liked his stories, but knew he was a lawyer.

“Why didn’t you actually do it,” he asked.

Mr. Helmsley stuck his hands into his blazer pockets. It was a simple question, but adults often complicate simplicity. And as with his mother when he asked about his grandparents, Mr. Helmsley always changed the subject when Archer asked this.

“Did you know this gaudy little fellow was one of the youngest pharaohs to ever rule Egypt?” he said, discreetly reading from a museum guide. “Tappy here was only thirteen years old when he became king.”

After glancing over Tappy, Archer decided it was for the best there weren’t many thirteen-year-old kings. “He looks depressed.”

“I think that’s just the eyeliner,” said Mr. Helmsley.

He licked a finger and reached for the sarcophagus.

“No touching,” said a security guard.

“Sorry,” said Mr. Helmsley.

“Did he want to become king?” asked Archer.

His father wasn’t sure. “He only ruled for two years before he died.”

Archer was taken aback. “Well, I don’t think he wanted to become king then,” he said, and stepped away from Tappenkuse.

Archer listened to a few more stories about his father’s almost adventures and then followed him to the exit and down the sidewalk home. He was thinking about his grandparents as they walked.

“What are they like in person and why are they never home?” he asked. “When am I going to meet them?”

“You met them when you were little,” Mr. Helmsley said.

Archer doubted this. He had no memory of it.

As they climbed the steps back to Helmsley House, Archer spotted a package leaning against the door. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with red string and addressed to him. Archer quickly scooped it up.

“What’s that?” Mr. Helmsley asked.

“What’s what?” said Archer, hiding it behind his back. “It’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing.”

At that moment, their neighbor Mr. Glub stepped out of his house and called to Mr. Helmsley. “Haven’t seen you in a while!”

Mr. Helmsley waved and went back down the steps to speak with him. Archer slipped inside and up to his room.

♦ EYE TO GLASS EYE ♦

Archer stepped into his closet, turned on the light, and pushed aside his clothes hangers to reveal an entire bookshelf brimming with packages. All of these were from his grandparents and he kept them a secret because his grandfather suggested it in a letter—but also because he liked having a secret to keep. He sat down on the floor, pulled the red string, and tore back the paper.

ARCHER B. HELMSLEY

375 WILLOW STREET

15TH OF OCTOBER

ARCHER,

THIS IS A LITTLE ODD BUT WE THOUGHT YOU MIGHT LIKE IT. A SHIP’S CAPTAIN GAVE IT TO US. HE WAS THE ONLY ONE WHO KNEW HOW TO GET US TO AN ISLAND MOUNTAIN THE LOCALS REFERRED TO AS ”DEATH MOUNTAIN.”

IT WAS A TINY MOUNTAIN REALLY. SHOT STRAIGHT UP OUT OF THE WATER AND WAS SPOTTED WITH TREES. IT WAS MORE BEAUTIFUL THAN ITS NAME MADE YOU THINK.

ENCLOSED IS A GLASS EYE. HIS GLASS EYE. HE ONLY HAD ONE EYE. THE CAPTAIN DID. BUT THAT DIDN’T BOTHER HIM. HE GAVE IT TO US ON THE RETURN SO WE WOULDN’T FORGET SEEING THE MOUNTAIN.

YOURS TRULY,

Ralph and Rachel Helmsley

Archer looked at the glass eye. The glass eye looked back at Archer. He picked it up and held it to his own, thinking he might be able to see the mountain, but all he saw was the back of a glass eye.

Archer longed to meet his grandparents. Judging from their letters and house, they must be magnificent people. But when would they return? Soon, he hoped. He was growing bored with his quiet life on Willow Street. More than anything, he wanted to embark on an expedition with them. An adventure—an unusual and strange adventure—like being carried by a pelican to the edge of the world with a pocket full of pebbles, where he could skip his stones from that great height and watch as they careened into darkness.